
Class::p5e5a3_ 
Book _a^0_J-i^ LS- 
(x)pyiight}l«__L1^^_ 

COFVRIGHT DEPOSIT. 









From .1 drawing by Henry Innian 




0f fSi^Alttt^ 



And Other Poems 



BY 



S. WARD LOPER 




BOSTON 

Richard G. Badger 



19C4 



Copyright 1904 by S. Wartl Loper 
All Rights Reser'ved 




LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

APR 19 1904 

Copyrlsht Entry 

2L^ss a^xxo. b 



CLASS 

COPY B 



!. No. I 






Printed at 

The Gorham Press 

Boston, U. S. A. 



DEDICATION 

To my dear wife, 

the faithful sharer of all my joys and sorrows, 

I dedicate this volume 

in which are shrined the inspirations that have come 

to me in some of my leisure hours. 



CONTENTS 




Part First 






PAGE 


Retrospection ..... 


II 


Menunkatuck ..... 


12 


The Old Stone House .... 


22 


The Building and the Builders . 


• 25 


The Stone House Wedding 


. 26 


On Menunkatuck's Shore 


. 28 


The Maidens of jMenunkatuck 


30 


Grandfather's House .... 


31 


No Home Like the Old Home . 


35 


My Boyhood Home .... 


■ 36 


Halleck 


37 


Whitfield 


39 


William Leete ..... 


40 


Guilford Green ..... 


42 


On Guilford Green ..... 


43 


Training Day on Guilford Green 


44 


LaFayette on Guilford Green . 


46 


Reunion of Battery A. C. N. G. 


47 


Tom the Parson's Son .... 


49 


The Absent-Minded Squire 


51 


The Tragedy of Rock Rimmon . 


53 


Old Friends ...... 


55 


The Old Mill 


56 


The Blind Miller 


58 


Death of the Blind Miller . . . . 


59 


Guilford Centennial Poem 


61 


Lake Quonepaug ...... 


72 



Part 


Second 








PA(iE 


Ithuriel's Spear .... 
In Memory of Minot A. Osborn 
Modern Giants .... 






77 

95 
96 


The Editor 






97 


The Printer's Devil 






98 


Brother Jonathan ... 
Children of the Brain 






99 

100 


Hylas 

That Awful Auto . 






102 
104 


Election on the Planet Mars 






106 


Football .... 






107 


The Man with a Horn 






109 


The Shades of Mortimer . 






no 


You Must Not Tell 






112 


Slander .... 






113 


Dreamland Life 






114 


Ministering Spirits 
From Shore to Shore 






115 
116 


Frostwork .... 






• 117 


The Old Pine Tree 






. 118 


In Memory of W. C. Fowler 
Burning of the Brooklyn Theatre 






119 
120 


Young America 






. 122 


Victory . 

A Castle in the Air . 








• 123 
. 124 


It Is Best to Have Faith 








. 125 


No Life So Fair 








. 126 


Fugit Tempus 

On Mountain Heights 








. 127 
. 128 


Tourmaline . 








129 


The Agate 








• 130 



PAGE 



The Fossil Hunter 








131 


Memories of the Past 








132 


Which One of These Are You ? 








133 


Trouble on the Planet Mars 








134 


Satan's Syndicate . 








135 


The Poor Man's Club 








137 


TheRumseller 








138 


The Temperance Lever . 








139 


The Under Dog 








140 


The Man in the Box 








141 


Part Third 


My Angel Mother 145 


The Language of Love 








146 


She Reigns a Queen 








147 


The True Wife 








. 148 


The Tribute of Love 








149 


Impatient Love 








150 


Toujours 








• 151 


Wedding Bells 








- 152 


The Silver Wedding 








- 153 


Love Keeps us Young 








- 154 


The Sunshine of Love 








- 155 


Love by Post 








- 156 


Three Little Maidens 








- 157 


The Birthday 








- 158 


God Bless the Little Ones 








- 159 


Our Bonnie Lassie . 








. 160 


On the Campus 








. 161 


Lover's Lane . 








162 


Across the Bridges . 








• 163 



PAGE 

Evelvn . 164 

Child Lore ....... 165 

The Child's Story 166 

At Rest 167 

Let Thy Thoughts Be Gentle . . . .168 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Fitz Greene Halleck . . . Frontispiece 

The Old Stone House . . . Facing page 22 

Guilford Green . . . . " "42 

Lake Quonepaug . . . . " "72 



PART FIRST 
Echoes irom the Home of Halleck 



RETROSPECTION 

"When long-forsaken hills and dales 

We once again rejoicing view, 
What fond associations rise 

And make one live his life anew! 

In thought one sees familiar forms, 
Hears voices tender accents take, 

That have the power to thrill the soul 
And sleeping memories awake. 

The heart throbs quick and warm again 
When one can thus the mind engage. 

And for a little while forget 
The weakness and the gloom of age. 

O sweet communion with the past 

That brings back life and love once more, 

With fragrant freshness of the hours 
That cheered us in the days of yore. 



II 



MENUNKATUCK 
The Indian name of Guilford, Conn. 

What is there in a name? Not much, 'tis true, 

Without associations old or new, 

Unless there be a rhythm to the word 

That music makes whenever it is heard. 

The name Menunkatuck, we freely own 

Has very little of a silvery tone. 

But it reminds us of the long ago, 

Of much that history and tradition show. 

It tells us of a people once native here 

To whom this tongue-contorting word was clear. 

As well as many others that we know 

That quite as wild and strange construction show. 

Perhaps to them this name was quite as dear 

As Guilford is to those now dwelling here. 

Here were their homes, they loved these hills and dales, 

The sheltering forests and the meadow swales. 

The unfettered streams and deep mysterious sea, 

All life sustaining, bounteous and free. 

Along those streams and in the forest shade 

Their wigwam homes with little skill were made, 

The rudest structures formed of bark or skin. 

Nor noted for the comforts found within. 

But all-sufhcient for their simple ways. 

Devoid of all luxurious displays. 

Here the red-skin squaws their children trained 

Till they their notion of life's duties gained. 

The boys to use the tomahawk and bow 

And the hunter's and the trapper's skill to know; 

The girls to follow in the mother's way 

And all the ancient customs to obev. 



To those young Indians came that period, too, 

All human kind delight in passing through. 

For Cupid hunts for youth of every shade. 

Nor makes the least exception in his trade. 

So then, the same old tale was often told 

To timid maidens by dusky lovers bold. 

Sometimes by warriors tall and straight. 

Painted and feathered, and of prideful gait. 

Some forest dandies, too, there might have been, 

And forest belles those dandies sought to win. 

Or with them flirt, hke some of modern make 

Who would not mind a maiden's heart to break. 

Those woodland belles were not the made up kind 

That sometimes in our modern life we find. 

They nothing knew of all the wondrous ways 

Through which fond woman now her charm displays. 

No curious puffs or frizzles kinked their hair, 

No toilet mysteries were cultured there, 

No foolish lacing the throbbing heart confined, 

Nor had they bustles sticking out behind. 

No monstrous, gaudy hat then crowned the head, 

Nor ever walked they with a mincing tread, 

But nearer nature and most simply clad 

Their graceful forms a charming witchery had. 

No doubt those wigwam homes had fulsome share 

Of anxious thought and wearisome care; 

From thence along the smoothly trodden tracks — 

With pappoose strapped upon their backs, 

The squaws, upon the common needs intent. 

Each day to all their stated duties went; 

Some the cool, enshaded pathway took 

To ever-flowing spring, or mountain brook. 

And from the bounteous and most healthful store 

13 



The sweet and thirst assuaging waters bore, 
Or else, in all the art of angling skilled, 
Their baskets with the speckled trout they filled. 
Some tilled the famous crop of beans and maize 
That every year it was their care to raise. 
Sometimes they followed where the hunters led, 
With watchful eyes and ever cautious tread. 
Ready the game the hunters killed to bear, 
And for the daily use that game prepare. 
For the hardest labor, and the greatest care. 
Was woman's constant portion then to bear. 
And yet, perhaps, her cares were easier far 
Than those of many modern women are. 
At least much healthier, we may assume. 
Than some that now the strength of life consume. 
They had no ten-room house in shape to keep; 
No stoves to black, nor dusty floors to sweep; 
No garments fine of elaborate make 
In weariness they made for fashion's sake; 
Their wardrobes then were no extensive thing. 
Nor did they change in make up fall and spring. 

Such was hfe on Menunkatuck's shore 
When first the white men came in days of yore; 
"Pale faces"— as the red men called the race 
That came their savage customs to efface. 
And vantage gain, by greater skill and might. 
And e'en supplant them in their ancient right. 
But none may say but that this change was best; 
All things to-day God's providence attest; 
It was all a part of the wondrous plan 
To bring to higher state the life of man; 
Though slow the evoluting methods seem — 
In progress of the vast eternal scheme, 

14 



That very slowness brings a greater strength 

And makes desired perfection sure at length. 

Menunkatuck — the Guilford of to-day, 

"My native place," with pride so many say; 

Nor child for home and mother can bestow 

A truer love than such for Guilford show. 

No matter where a wanderer's footsteps stray 

That love is kept within his heart alway, 

Nor ever happier day in life he knows 

Than that when to his native town he goes. 

With joy he traverses the well-known streets. 

With greater joy if old time friend he meets, 

With warm hand clasp and hearty words of cheer 

To them what visions of the past appear. 

If many weary years have passed away 

And these who chance to meet are old and gray 

They find, perchance, some once accustomed seat 

And there talk o'er their retrospections sweet; 

Some hard experiences, too, they own. 

And talk of many failures they have known, 

With tales of those who sadly went astray 

When fairest hopes of life before them lay. 

Death, too, full oft performed its fateful part 

And wronged sweet souls or broke some loving heart. 

To these old friends, through all the years, 

A constant change in everything appears, 

And though they boast of things of earlier days, 

And "good old times" in all their converse praise, 

They would not check the rapid course of time 

That they might hear some dear, melodious chime, 

If, hearing that, they were compelled to yield 

The rare conceptions the present has revealed, 

And even as they thus their lives review 



15 



The ways of the past, the friends they knew, 

They grant, perforce, the great advancement shown, 

And all the present as superior own; 

In every home increasing comforts seen; 

The well kept lawns, and streets so neat and clean; 

The public works, the buildings well designed 

To meet the needs that come to life refined, 

All these attest approachment to the tone 

That only to the higher life is known. 

As a summer idler amid well-known scenes 
How dear such homing to a wanderer seems; 
From street to street with eagerness he goes 
To find the places that so well he knows. 
Though few, indeed, he finds are just the same, 
Nor all the streets retain their olden name. 
One that he knew in youth as ''Crooked Lane" 
Does now a different appellation gain, 
And, to become more dignified and great. 
They give that thoroughfare the name of State. 
The road to the "Sluice," or "Harbor Street," 
As Whitfield is more historic and complete. 
The "Old Turnpike" — on following up his searc b, 
He finds is given the pious name of Church. 
Quite an ancient landmark is missing here. 
In modern progress bound to disappear. 
The "Old Town Hall," a place of local fame, 
Where all who wished could argue and declaim, 
The scene of sturdy and stragetic fights 
When laying taxes and defending rights; 
The place for Fairs, Lectures, and Minstrel shows, 
And all such things a country village knows; 
Here the "Clionians," with forensic skill, 



i6 



Were wont to meet in intellectual drill 

When each ambitious spouter was proud to hear — 

From those who listened, an approving cheer. 

On straight-back benches sat the lassies fair 

Who had, no doubt, especial interest there, 

And, — later on, selected life-long mates 

As sequence to those wonderful debates. 

Each street some hallowed memory revives 

Of times and strange events in many lives. 

From Broad to Fair, to River Street he goes 

To where the river to the meadow flows, — 

Menunkatuck Stream — the silvery band 

That beautifies more perfectly the land. 

Across the bridges, out towards Moose Hill, 

From thence to Birchen, then to the old Town Mill. 

There on the massive arch, that spans the stream, 

The wanderer sits awhile — o'er all the past to dream. 

While round and round the forceful millwheels go. 

And 'n,eath the arch the rippling waters flow 

To keep sweet measure with the rumbling mill, 

And all the air with droning music fill. 

Just here the poet Halleck often found 

A resting place when on his daily round. 

And here some inspiration may have gained. 

Some measure of his wondrous fame attained. 

To the dusty miller his words were fraught, 

With courtesy and considerate thought. 

To him, as to all, his generous mind 

Expressed itself in manner most refined. 

And he who there recalled those favored days. 

And thought of all the poet's genial ways, 

Thought, too, how fast, since then, had sped the years, 

And fufl of wonder all his life appears; 



17 



And still his dream goes on, he scarcely hears 

The splash of water and the rumbling gears; 

His mind, absorbed, takes lengthened circuit round 

From High Bluff Head unto Long Island Sound; 

A swift reviewing mental power he gains; — 

Leet's Island, Clapboard Hill and Nutplains 

Sachem's Head, the Point, Quonepaug and Totoket, 

To all in thought he goes, no place does he forget, 

And everywhere the old time friends appear, 

And their well-known voices he seems to hear. 

Time is forgotten, life its broken links renew, 

And keeps these visions of the past in view. 

Once more in youth and with vigorous tread. 

In warmth and love, and joy, his steps are led; 

Sweet girlhood forms, with faces fresh and fair, 

With little of their future showing there, 

And lads who for the future had no fear 

To whom the untried world seemed bright and clear, 

With them, and as young, he starts in life once more. 

Those happiest years of all is living o'er. 

Then on to manhood, full of power and pride, 

With man's ambitions reaching far and wide. 

So on and on he dreams with quickening sense 
That makes his interest more and more intense. 
Now chiming bells rouse other memories, too, — 
The weekly privilege that once he knew; 
Of Sunday mornings when he took his way 
Across the green, their summons to obey. 
Good Doctor Bennet now he seems to see, 
No man more fitted for his place could be, 
Within that lofty pulpit there he stands 
Enrobed in black, with cleric neck-tie bands, 

i8 



A saintly man, whose every word was fraught 

With perfect kindness and with holy thought. 

And what a congregation then was there 

Of noble men the church's work to share, 

Who by their constant presence example set 

So many at the present time forget. 

There, too, was Halleck in his wonted place 

To worship with a reverential grace, 

And by his side the sister, always there, 

The constant object of his loving care. 

No sign in him of what he then could claim 

Of worldly adulation and of fame; 

With his fellow townsmen free from aught 

That could suggest the least assumptive thought. 

This vision of the poet brings to mind 

Once more his daily habits so refined. 

His form familiar as seen upon the street. 

His care each one to ever kindly greet : — 

In later years his form just slightly bowed, 

His eyes cast down with inmost thought endowed, 

And step that seemed to slowly measure time 

To sweet conceptions and melodious rhyme, 

His lips oft moving with some unuttered theme — 

Unconscious murmurings of a poet's dream. 

All the world could give him highest praise and fame 

And round the earth his wondrous gift proclaim. 

But in his native home to end his days 

Was sweeter far than all of worldly praise, 

The dear associations there renewed 

With much of joy life's closing hours endued. 

Round and round the rumbling millwheel goes, 
And still with rapid rush the rippling water flows, 
And still the aged dreamer keeps his seat 

^9 



These cherished memories of the past to greet; 
On wafting wings they hasting come and go, 
So much a long and busy Hfe must know; 
Scene after scene, in panoramic view. 
Full many phases of his life renew, 
A life prolonged while others passed away 
When oft it seemed they might still longer stay; 
Young men so strong the strain of life to bear, 
Happy maidens so lovable and fair, 
The more mature rejoicing on their way. 
All unconscious of what before them lay, — 
The darksome shadows of disease and death, 
So soon to poison every healthful breath, 
So soon to turn their joys to grief and pain 
And make their efforts and ambitions vain; 
The favored, the beautiful to pass away. 
The rich unable to prolong their stay, 
How many, oh, how many he recalls 
For whom, as yet, a tear regretful falls. 
While he is left some purpose to fulfil — 
Some hidden purpose of the Higher Will. 
'Tis thus he dreams and reasons sitting there 
Amid the scenes to him so dear, so fair. 

The dead demand remembrance for their worth, 
And honored mention in their place of birth. 
For, with the living, they make up the fame 
Their natal home from year to year may claim ; 
And everywhere all human life has true accord 
With all that nature's bounteous charms afford. 
'Tis more than imagery of flowing thought 
That thus this woof and warp of life has wrought, 
No truer, fonder limning could there be 



20 



Of what is dear to all humanity. 

A charm there is to native hills and dales, 

A charm magnetic that nowhere else prevails; 

And most magnetic Guilford ever seems, 

Its rocky ledges and its winding streams. 

Its hills and vallies and its rock-bound shore; 

Its grand reminders of the days of yore; 

And over all there lies the wondrous glow 

All human energy and love bestow. 

On all these hills and dales the tokens still remain 

That tells of those who did not live in vain ; 

The men of old so full of zeal and prayer, 

So ready in their hves to do and dare. 

And still in many homes those names are known. 

Still kept unsullied as the years have flown. 

From sire to son, transmitted to this day, 

The spirit of the past holds healthful sway. 

Still rouses longing souls to high desire 

And bids them to a worthy fame aspire. 

Still keeps alive increasing pride of place. 

That year by year develops added grace. 

As all "good Guilford souls" some measures take 

The dear old town to more attractive make. 



21 



THE OLD STONE HOUSE, GUILFORD 

This ancient building, by earliest settlers reared, 
Should be to every patriotic heart endeared, 
For every stone w^hich forms its massive walls 
A sacred story of the past recalls 
Of men and women brave to do and dare. 
Upheld by simple faith, and love, and prayer. 
These walls once echoed with their holy songs 
Filled with the fervor which to such faith belongs. 
And, in the love an earnest Christian knows. 
Their heartfelt prayers here pleadingly arose. 
Thankful for the scant comforts that they knew 
They much enjoyment from those blessings drew. 
Praising God for freedom — life's dearest gift, 
And day by day gained cheerfulness and thrift. 
How different then from what is seen to-day 
Was all that round this ancient building lay, 
Instead of pleasant homes on well-kept streets, 
That now on every side the vision meets, 
A few rough dwelHngs were scattered o'er the plains, 
Each reached by well worn trails or grassy lanes. 
Upon the plains the ploughman, as he turned the sod. 
Oft felt some danger in each step he trod. 
And, for the need a moment might demand, 
He kept his trusty rifle close at hand. 
And from these strong walls on every side, 
A watchful sentinel for foes intrusive spied. 
And loudly beaten drum, or signal gun. 
The warnings gave unheeded then by none. 
What strange experience of life was known 
In those early days within this house of stone. 
Within its walls how many things took place 
That touched the future our fathers dared to face. 

22 




o 

Q 
h 



Z 






'5 o 



U 



But through all in God they placed their trust, 
And felt that everything was right and just; 
Felt that the hand that led them to this shore 
Good purpose for the future held in store. 
Fair was the landscape that around them lay, 
More charming, even, than it is to-day. 
Beautiful in its ever-varied scene 
Of hill and dale, of stream and meadows clean. 
Beyond the meadows Long Island Sound 
In sparkling setting all that landscape bound, 
Where rolling waves, by sunlight silvered o'er 
IMade murmuring music on the rock-ribbed shore. 

When sunset glory was flaming in the west — 

On summer evenings, the people came to rest 

Upon the grassy slope, before the open door. 

And there they sat, and talked their prospects o'er, 

Talked of the pleasant homes they all once knew 

Before those hours of trial they passed through. 

And there, perchance, stretched out upon the ground, 

A savage from the forest might be found, 

Silent, but hstening with sense intent. 

Though only half divining what they meant. 

Whitefield, the pastor, no doubt was often with them 

there. 
In all their social intercourse to share. 
With all his happy conversational art 
With the wittiest keeping up his part. 
But if any of his flock in suffering lay 
How quick his sympathies came in play. 
How near he drew to help them all their troubles bear, 
How comforting his words of love and prayer. 
In the old stone house the day of rest 
Was ever, then, of all the days, the best. 

23 



From every home the people all drew near 
Their pastor's pleading, kindly voice to hear. 
Sweet were the hymns and earnest were the prayers 
That voiced their needs, their hopes, their cares, 
And from those prayers a full fruition grew 
Whose blessings later generations knew. 

Such was the life within and around these walls, 
And such the memories the old stone house recalls. 
And fitting it is that all should reverence show 
And sure protection around it throw. 
That it may stand for many centuries more, 
An honored relic of those days of yore. 



24 



THE BUILDING AND THE BUILDERS 

1639. 

Day by day the walls uprose; 

Rock from craggy ledges torn; 

Oak from primal forest borne; 
All the b(;st the builders chose, 
Good and firm and hewed with skill, 
Each its proper place to fill; 
Rock and oak for wall and frame, 
Ne'er to bring the builders shame. 

Red men came to labor there, 
Burdens bearing day by day. 
Toiling in the paleface way, 
Wondering at the ceaseless care 
As those massive walls were laid; 
Walls for wear of centuries made. 
Built for shelter and repose; 
Built to check aggressive foes. 

Side by side they labored long, 

Men of the old world and the new; 
Stone by stone the building grew. 
All the courses, straight and strong. 
Held the ponderous beams in place 
Rafter and girder, and brace. 
Till at last it stood concrete 
Home and fortress all complete. 

Home and fortress, temple, too. 
Where sad souls to God in prayer 
Would their needs and sorrows bear, 

And the love of life renew, 



There, too, songs of grateful praise 
Voices in accord would raise, 
Thankful for the blessings known 
In that hallowed house of stone. 



THE STONE HOUSE WEDDING 
About 1640. 

There was a wedding long ago 

On Menunkatuck's shore. 
But who were wed no records show, 

Or what they married for. 

Some reason good they doubtless knew, 

And, as is often said, 
Perhaps they were "fond lovers true," 

And that was why they wed. 

It is called "The Stone House Wedding," 

A rather rocky name, 
But it is the usual heading 

That all historians claim. 

No one knows the exact year 

This mystic couple chose. 
Before the parson to appear, 

Attired in wedding clothes. 

But that it was in summer weather 

Some centuries ago, 
That thus they came together, 

One record seems to show. 



^f, 



For there it is stated, at least, 
When they were made as one. 

They had a Uttle wedding feast 
Soon as the deed was done. 

And, for extra fare — the best they had: 
The wedding guests to please, 

A dish of — not so very bad, 
A dish of pork and pease! 

A summer dish until this day. 
Throughout all Yankee land. 

And we may very safely say 
They never had them canned; 

So that, beneath a summer sun, 

Perhaps about July, 
This matrimonial deed was done 

No mortal dares deny. 

Then thanks to pork and pease 

For making so much sure. 
The world will feel far more at ease 

To have that fact secure. 



27 



ON MENUNKATUCK'S SHORK 

Oft I think of the dear old home 

On Menunkatuck's shore, 
And thick and fast the memories come 

Of the happy days of yore. 

The ever-winding silvery stream 

Still flows as gently on, 
But in life's ever-changing dream 

New life has come, old life has gone. 

Strange faces and new forms are there 

On Menunkatuck's shore, 
So memory strives with tender care 

To old-time life restore. 

They come with their remembered ways, 
With friendship kind and true. 

The old and young of those bright days, 
The many that I knew. 

In thought, along the river road I walk 

To Charlie Miller's store, 
Where neighbors nightly met to talk 

Their common interests o'er. 

The Spencers and Stones, I see them all. 
The Cruttendens and Leetes, 

Hotchkiss and Tyler, sure to call, 
And fill accustomed seats. 

The stories told, the way they joked. 
The bantering and the fun, 



2.8 



The grave discussions oft provoked 
By something said or done. 

It all comes back, that evening hour 
Which wrought no sin or ill, 

But ever served, with kindly power, 
A social need to fill. 

Above the bridge there stands the mill, 
Whose archway spans the stream; 

The old millstones are rumbling still 
And like the old times seem. 

But the toilers there are new, 
There are strangers everywhere. 

And the familiar forms are few 
Who share life's duties there. 

Beyond the bridge, upon the hill, lie 

Full many seen no more 
Of those well known in years gone by 

On Menunkatuck's shore. 

In that fair city of the dead 
The missing names are seen, 

And when the records there are read 
How much those records mean. 

Thus loves my mind often to roam 
And think of friends of yore. 

And dream of the ever dear old home 
On Menunkatuck's shore. 



39 



THE MAIDENS OF MENUNKATUCK 

The lillies are fair 
Which the waters bear 

On Menunkatuck's stream; 
And silvery white, 
Their blossoms so bright 

In the sunlight gleam. 

And fair is the rose 
That lovingly grows 

On Menunkatuck's shore, 
And the zephyrs haste 
Its fragrance to taste, 

So sweet evermore. 

But O! more than fair 
Are the maidens there, 

On Menunkatuck's shore; 
In their dear faces, 
The loves and the graces. 

Are seen evermore. 

With blushes and smiles 
Their beauty beguiles. 

Like a summer night's dream; 
And their glances bright 
Are full of delight 

In their sparkling gleam. 

They banish all care, 
Those maidens so fair 

On Menunkatuck's shore, 



30 



And seldom deceive, 
In the spells they weave, 
So sweet evermore. 



GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE 

We are going through the old house 

With thoughtful minds and footsteps slow, 
For we are told that very soon 

This loved, ancestral home must go. 
They will tear down these sacred walls— 

The hallowed shelter of the past, 
But all our memories of the place 

Shall evermore and unchanged, last. 
This was our grandmother's room, 

And yonder stood her easy chair, 
And it seems as if we must see 

Her saintly form now sitting there. 
Dear grandmother! What a kindly face, 

And what a pleasant way she had. 
And what words of comfort always gave 

To all the weary and the sad. 
And here we come to the kitchen, 

Which always savored of good cheer. 
For grandmother was a splendid cook, 

And served a famous table here. 
She always kept an open house, and ne'e-r 

Against a stranger closed the door. 
How neat she kept this quaint old room. 

And how she scrubbed this oaken floor. 
Up there are the hooks on the"|beam 

Where the "Old King's Arm" always hung, 



31 



And across those nails the shot pouch 

And the powder horn were strung. 
I always coveted that horn 

All carved in curious designs, 
And with great grandfather's name 

And "1776" in fancy curving lines. 
Beside the fireplace stood the "settle" 

Where we sat evenings in the glare 
Of burning birch and hickory wood, 

And in the coals saw pictures fair. 
In this corner stood the tall clock, 

That wonder of our younger boyhood days, 
When grandfather, at early bedtime, 

So carefully the ponderous weights would raise. 
And then, before we went to bed. 

Grandfather the evening prayers read, 
And then we climbed up these old stairs, 

When each to each "good night" had said. 
The chamber door has yet the wooden latch 

By string of leather lifted. 
And here is the stair which always creaked 

As if with sense of anger gifted. 
How upset the boys used to be 

When they tried to get out at night 
When, creeping down in stocking feet. 

That creaking stair their plans would blight. 
It always creaked the loudest then. 

And grandfather was sure to wake 
Did any racket in the house 

The usual midnight stillness break. 
Well! here we are, "upstairs" once more, 

In the attic chamber, long and wide. 



i|2 



Once filled with lots of ancient things, 

Among which we used to play and hide. 
Beneath these huge, axe-hewn rafters. 

Full many a night we have lain, 
And heard the rain upon the shingles. 

Or dashing on the window pane. 
And here, in springtime, we heard the twitter 

Of the wrens and martins overhead, 
And almost seemed to understand 

The pretty, loving things they said. 
Our bed was close beneath the eaves, 

And between the rafters I can see 
A ship — chalked out one lazy morning; 

How plain it all comes back to me. 
And we were all so happy then — 

In the dear old house, in the dear old days, 
When there was no foolish pride of life 

In the good old-fashioned ways. 
Some may say that we were young then, 

And everything looked good and bright, 
And that now, when old and harrassed, 

We cannot make new ways seem right. 
But I know that folks were better then. 

And had more reverence for the good, 
And Sunday was a sacred day then. 

And people kept it as they should. 
But — well, it does no good to talk, 

We cannot check the flowing tide, 
When so many now are reckless, 

And good old ways are cast aside 
Folks must have grander houses now. 

And £0, grandfather's house must go, too. 



23 



And give place to something modern — 

A larger mansion, fine and new. 
This may be best, but still 'tis sad; 

It won't be grandfather's house at all, 
Nor the dear associations 

Of all the happy past recall. 
But now we must take a look outside, 

And down across the road we'll go, 
And watch the summer sunset 

O'er the house and hillside glow. 
Here on the bench by the stone wall, 

Beneath grandfather's maple tree, 
We will sadly sit awhile. 

And all the hallowed pictures see. 
It is all like parting from one's friends; 

And there comes from the heart a sigh, 
As here we take our last farewell. 

And say to the dear old place good-bye! 



34 



NO HOME LIKE THE OLD HOME 

No home like the old home — 

The place of my birth; 
Ever the happiest, 

The dearest on earth; 
The old home that I love 

Down deep in my heart, 
Home of sweet memories 

Which never depart. 

No home like the old home, 

Wherever I rove! 
In its freshness of life, 

Its pureness of love; 
Its pains and its sorrows 

Are sacred to me, 
Its cares and its labors 

As blessings I see. 

No home like the old home 

With the loved ones there; 
The home of my childhood. 

When life was so fair. 
All the wide world over — 

Wherever I roam, 
I ever shall love it, 

That dearest old home. 



35 



MY BOYHOOD HOME 

I have been to the old place — 
My boyhood home once more, 

And in each familiar nook 

Have dreamed of the "days of yore." 

I dreamed of the "loved and lost," 
Who once were gathered there, 

To give each other greeting. 
And all life's duties share. 

The old house was much the same 
In outward look of cheer. 

That pleasant look of comfort 
To "fondest mem'ry dear." 

Within the yard and garden— 
Where'er my footsteps strayed, 

Each well- remembered spot 
Some happy thought conveyed. 

The vines my hands had planted, 
Each thrifty shrub and tree, 

Gave forth a fragrant welcome, 
A welcome home to me. 

Home? Ah no! I could not claim 
Unquestioned entrance there. 

No more within those sheltering walls 
The love of kindred share. 



36 



O, no! it was not all the same, 

And never more can be, 
For strangers keep my boyhood home. 

That home so dear to me. 



HALLECK 

The flowing melody of thought, 

That thrilled within his active brain. 

In purest language he enwrought 
Some noble purpose to attain. 

There came to him exultant power 
In every triumph of the right. 

When patriots, in some salient hour, 
Excelled in deeds of valorous might. 

He heard the trumpet's clarion peal, 
The tramp of men, the deafening roaj— 

The shouts, the groans, the clash of steel, 
The ever horrid din of war. 

His soul went proudly forth to meet 
The tireless champions of the free; 

Their victory to him was sweet 
As love of life and liberty. 

He toned a requiem for the dead 
In words the world will not forget; 

The hero, who his life blood shed, 
Such sacrifice could not regret. 



17 



He touched the past with reverent pen; 

He praised wherever praise was due; 
Of places and of famous men 

Word pictures he as famous drew. 

All nature brought him sweet repose, 
Like gentle dalliance of love, 

And summer sky and fragrant rose 
In wreaths of poesy he wove. 

Even in daily toil and care 

He sought with true and kindly art. 
To find some inspiration there, 

And constant charm to life impart. 

Against the follies of the times. 
Of fashion, or of foolish fad, 

A wit sarcastic in his rhymes 
He ever most effective had. 

True poet of those earlier days — 
The pride of all his native land. 

The world gives him the meed of praise 
His gifts superior should command. 



38 



WHITFIELD 

The story of his life we read, 
And there the man distinctly see 

As champion, in word and deed, 
Against unrighteous tyranny. 

We see him in his native land 

Proscribed from high privilege there, 
For godly truths unchecked to stand, 

And longing souls for Heaven prepare. 

He came across the ocean wave 

A perfect freedom to attain. 
For those who with him dared to brave 

The chance of hardship and of pain. 

Unyielding in his sense of right — 
A man inspired by purest thought, 

It was his holiest delight 
To live the life he daily taught. 

To all his people kind and true, 
In all their strange unwonted lot, 

He all their wants and troubles knew. 
Nor ever one in need forgot. 

As loving pastor and their guide, 
Their perfect confidence he won, 

And to their life himself allied 
By constant acts of kindness done. 

The red men, of the forest, too, 
He ever strove to win and save; 



39 



To help them every way he knew 
He most untiring effort gave. 

His influence will still remain 

With those who all his history know, 

Who from his hfe some courage gain, 
And reverence for his memory show. 

WILLIAM LEETE 

1 660- 1. 

The Regicides friend, a man 

With mind to will and do. 
Who knew the certain risk he ran 

Yet stood most firm and true. 

He dared to brave the tyrant power 

Of a revengeful king, 
And, in a great momentous hour, 

He did a noble thing. 

No hirelings from a foreign shore 
Could rude advantage gain, 

No matter what command they bore 
Their purpose to attain. 

He dared the refugees in need 

To shelter and conceal, 
No royal force by word or deed, 

Could make him aught reveal. 

Their liberty, and e'en their Hves, 
Depended on him then, 

40 



And most successfully he strove 
To save these godly men. 

Frustrated thus in their desire, 

The Regicides to take, 
The bloodhounds from their search retire, 

And homeward journey make. 

Back to their master they return 

In disappointed state, 
While angry thoughts within them burn 

That such should be their fate. 

From condemnation for their guile, 

No one their names can free, 
While he who checked their purpose vile 

Will ever honored be. 



41 



GUILFORD GREEN 

Tell me not of Paphian groves 

And rare enchantments there, 
Where loitering ones could breathe 

A lotus scented air; 
To all good Guilford souls, 

No place was ever seen 
Like that enshaded space 

They call the Guilford Green. 

So fair to look upon, 

With walks so broad and neat, 
And grand old forest trees 

Whose arching branches meet. 
Sure none could ask for more 

Than what is felt and seen, 
By all those whose Mecca 

Is found on Guilford Green. 

On anniversary days 

It is the pow-wow ground 
Where all the natives 

From far and near are found. 
And, with voices united, 

They every one will say 
That no where else does time 

So quickly pass away. 



43 




w 
w 

o 

Q 
a: 
O 

s 



ON GUILFORD GREEN 

For all the native born 
The happiest time is seen, 

When they can congregate 
Upon the Guilford Green. 

The greatest day of all 

Is when they hold their Fair, 

When the seeds of spring-time 
An autumn harvest bear. 

Then the toil-worn farmers 
Their yearly notes compare, 

And with prideful pleasure 
The general interest share. 

Then the farm's best products 
Of valued kind and grade, 

In varying exhibits 
Are tastefully displayed. 

Then strings of lowing cattle — 

Looking fat and clean. 
Have an annual outing 

Around the Guilford Green. 

Beneath the elms and maples 
The joyous crowds parade, 

And there the money-catchers. 
Are tempting all to trade. 

And the aunts and uncles, 
And all the cousins, too, 



43 



Are seeking out each other 
And lots of talking do. 

All the lads and lassies 

Are full of life and fun, 
And some little courting 

Most properly is done. 

For all, both old and young, 

A happy time is seen. 
When thus they congregate 

Upon the Guilford Green. 

TRAINING DAY ON GUILFORD GREEN 

With a rub a dub — rub a dub, 

It was a great display. 
When the town militia drilled 

On old time training day. 

The farmers left their ploughs afield — 

That Tuesday first in May, 
They dropped their hoes and spades 

And townward took their way. 

They carried weapons old and new, 

And some had dummies, too, 
For those who had no gun or sword 

A hickory stick would do. 

A plate of tin upon each hat 

Was most securely tied. 
That bore the company letter 

In which they took much pride. 

H4 



Upon the green they formed in line, 

And called it "dress parade" 
When each one stretched his neck to see 

If perfect line was made. 

And when they wheeled to company rank 

It was a sight to see, 
For the crook of a letter S 

Could not more crooked be. 

And then they marched and counter-marched, 

And shouldered arms with care, 
And each one tried his very best 

A martial look to wear. 

And every youngster in the town 

Tagged proudly on behind, 
To them it was both fun and glory 

In perfect bliss combined. 

With roll of drums and fifings shrill, 

And stars and stripes galore. 
It was, indeed, a great display 

That training day of yore. 



45 



LAFAYETTE ON GUILFORD GREEN 

It was a grand occasion, 

When LaFayette was seen, 
Reviewing veteran soldiers 

Upon the Guilford Green. 

It was in eighteen twenty-four, 

When last he came to see 
The well beloved people 

He bravely helped to free. 

From New Haven to New London 

He then was on his way, 
And stopped awhile in Guilford, 

On that historic day. 

And the "old Mihtia" turned out 

And gave him honor due, 
And on the Guilford Green 

He held a brief review. 

Kind words he gave, and praised 
Those patriots tried and true, 

Whose noble worth and valor 
Through all the past he knew. 

And when the artillery 

Swept past in rapid runs, 
And trained closed to the ground 

The muzzles of the guns. 

Those huge, old cannon 
Gave forth a mighty roar, 



46 



Which made the hills to echo, 
And rattled every door. 

And LaFayette cried "bravo!" 

And said "it all was fine," 
While all the troops saluted, 

And cheers went down the line. 

And for all who gathered there 

It was a grand display, 
When thus they gladly welcomed 

The hero of the day — 

A day to be remembered. 

When LaFayette was seen 
Reviewing veteran soldiers 

Upon the Guilford Green. 

REUNION OF BATTERY A. C. N. G. 
Guilford, June 6th, 1900. 

We are in camp once more to-night; 

We hear the tattoo call; 
Weary and worn in life's hard fight 

This hour brings rest to all. 

All? yes, for the dead are resting — too, 

Their tiresome march is o'er, 
One by one they have gained the heights 

And rest forevermore. 

They have gone to join the ranks above 
Of comrades true and brave 

47 



Who died upon the battlefield 
The nation's Hfe to save. 

War has its awful rush and roar, 

Its crash of leaden rain, 
Its crimson streams of human gore, 

Its shrieking tones of pain. 

But after battle perfect peace 
And right may then prevail, 

And all the wronged may find release, 
Though all the cost bewail. 

And so, 'tis fit that we rejoice 

As thus we meet to-night. 
And gratefully together voice 

The triumph of the right. 

For not in vain was all the past — 

The horrid hell of war. 
Nor vain the burden on him cast 

Each patriot soldier bore. 

For we, as comrades gathered here. 

Grand consummations see, 
And all unmarred our flag so dear 

Shall freedom's emblem be. 

Ay! one flag and one country still 

Our lasting pride shall be, 
A land whose fame the world shall thrill 

The home of Liberty. 



TOM, THE PARSON'S SON 
A Guilford Reminiscence. 

Like lots of other jolly boys, 

Tom, the parson's son. 
Was always ready for a joke. 

And brimming full of fun. 
Were gates unhinged, or door bells rung, 

As pranks mischievous played: — 
If pistol shots, or noisy drums 

A midnight racket made. 
Whoever else must share the blame 

It always was avowed 
That Tom, the parson's son. 

Was leader of the crowd. 

The academy, in those days, 

Was standing on the green. 
And there, upon a Monday morning, 

A curious sight was seen. 
An old grey goose, securely tied. 

Sat in the teacher's chair 
With spectacles upon its nose. 

Through which it seemed to stare 
At an open dictionary 

That there before it lay. 
A very comic thing, indeed. 

As any one would say. 
Of course no scholar there could tell 

By whom the deed was done, 
But glances sly were given 

To Tom, the parson's son. 



49 



One Sunday, in his father's church, 

Not a hymn book could be found. 
Though everywhere, in all the pews. 

With care they hunted round. 
And not till years had passed away 

Was the mystery explained. 
Then, in taking down the "Sounding board," 

The books were all regained. 
For there in dusty piles they lay, 

Where they were thrown long years before 
In most mischievous way. 

Some of the older people then 

The days long past reviewed, 
And, out of many memories, 

A theory construed. 
For they most readily recalled 

The many things once done 
By that irrepressible lad, 

Tom, the parson's son. 
But he was then to manhood grown. 

His prankish days were o'er, 
And he, also, was a parson. 

And reverend titles bore. 
In years, and thoughtful mind mature, — 

A pious man was he, 
But still retaining cheerful ways 

Wherever he might be. 



50 



THE ABSENT-MINDED SQUIRE 

Squire Ruggles went to Mulberry, one day, 
To bring from the meadows a load of hay. 
From his home on Fair Street he took his course, 
Well mounted, as usual, on his old gray horse. 

The nag and the squire were mated quite well, 
For of many long years they both could tell; 
Yet both were vigorous, though gaunt of frame. 
And still some comfort in life could claim. 

Very little grooming the old horse had. 
And the squire's toilet was generally bad; 
But the squire and horse were honest and true. 
And on life's journey pulled straight as they knew. 

To ride on Old Gray was the squire's mode 
Even when driving his team on the road. 
With his whip held firm in his horny hand 
He kept the oxen in perfect command. 

Thus to Mulberry they went that day, 
Slowly jogging along in the usual way, 
The oxen lazily dragging the cart. 
With the driver and team some distance apart. 

But now and then the squire would stop and wait 
And flourish his whip to hurry their gait. 
Then man and horse to their dreaming returned — 
A habit the oxen, as well, in perfection had learned. 

At last, however, to the meadows they came. 
And met the mosquitoes of Mulberry fame, 

51 



And then they all some activity showed, 
And there the old oxen needed no goad. 

When the hay was loaded — a moderate jag — 
The squire tied behind it the old gray nag, 
And for a while, most unusual and strange. 
By the side of his team he walked for a change. 

Soon tiring of that he untied Old Gray 
And mounted, and homeward they plodded away, 
The squire, the horse, and the oxen all seeming 
In a state of stupidity dreaming. 

Suddenly the squire recalled to his mind 
That in starting he tied the old horse on behind, 
And, wheeling about to the rear of the cart, 
On a tour of inspection did start. 

No animal there Squire Ruggles could see! 
Why ! where in the mischief could Old Gray be ? 
He was gone, that was sure; it was strange indeed, 
An unheard of thing for the honest steed. 

He stopped the team and with an anxious look 
The road straight back to Mulberry took. 
No horse was there ! What in the world could it mean ? 
The strangest thing he ever had seen. 

He sat there wondering what he should do, 
And chafing inwardly a little, too, 
When a townsman came travelling that way 
And stopped, a word of greeting to say. 



52 



"Have you seen my old gray horse on the road?" 
Said the squire. "I tied him behind my load 
And, somehow or other, he's got loose 
And where he has gone beats the deuce." 

"Why, Squire, what do you mean? What are you rid- 
ing on?" 
"By gosh!" cried the squire, and off he was gone 
While the dust flew 'neath the heels of Old Gray 
As back up the road he cantered away. 

THE TRAGEDY OF ROCK RIMMON 

Squire Ruggles went to Rock Rimmon 

To chop some wood one day, 
Up the turnpike, and past the sawmill, 

He rode upon "Old Gray." 

He had arranged that morning 

To cut an hickory tree 
That leaned a little o'er the cliff, 

As one could plainly see. 

By nature's law it sure would fall 

Upon the rocks below, 
But the squire had planned a way 

To make it uphill go. 

And on his saddle-horn he carried 

A cart-rope, new and strong. 
And breast-collar, and traces, too. 

With whiffletree he took along. 



53 



Rock Rimmon reached, he climbed the tree 

And tied aloft with care 
The rope that in his little plan 

Would such important office bear. 

Descending then, he harnessed up 
His honest steed "Old Gray," 

His comrade for so many years 
Along hfe's toilsome way. 

The rope's end, then, which hung 

Suspended from the tree, 
Around the whiffletree he rove, 

Drawn taut as it could be. 

Then the squire seized his keen- edged axe, 

And swung it with a will. 
To pierce the hickory's solid heart, 

His purpose to fulfil. 

At last a sudden tremor thrilled 
Up through each quivering bough, 

"Get up," the squire shouted to the horse, 
As loud as he knew how. 

But all too late! The drowsing steed 

Feeling the backward strain 
Yielded to that, nor pulled ahead, 

Nor strove to foothold gain. 

Over the cliff went horse and tree! 

Crashing and plunging below. 
Where poor "Old Gray" gave up his life 

With an equine wail of woe. 

54 



OLD FRIENDS 

No friends like the old friends, go all the world through, 
The dear friends of our youth so hearty and true. 
Those loved ones that we miss and never more find — 
As onward we journey, affection as kind. 

No friends like the old friends ! we think of them all. 
And often in fancy their presence recall, 
Their voices in greeting seem often to hear 
Breathing sweetness of love or accents of cheer. 

The world may show kindness wherever we go, 
And favors and honors most freely bestow. 
But the joys of the present can never renew 
The friendships of youth, so hearty and true. 

From boyhood to manhood — in freshness of life. 
E'er burdened with trouble, or wearied with strife, 
Our faith made us happy, and bade us confide 
In those friends of our youth so honest and tried. 

And sweet was the converse and the counseUings wise 
When we made of the future a longed-for prize, 
And hope, all-sustaining, awakened a zeal 
That age in its weariness seldom can feel. 

Dear friendships of youth! we cling to them yet, 
And all their fond pleasures can never forget, 
Nor ne'er shall we find — go all the world through. 
Such friends as the old friends, so hearty and true. 



55 



THE OLD MILL 
North Guilford 

One of the pleasant places 

We nevermore forget, 
And one Time's ceaseless changes 

Hath kindly spared as yet: 

A quaint and ancient building, 
Hid in a mountain glen, 

Away from the restless world, — 
The busy haunts of men. 

Enshadowed by the hemlocks. 
Whose pendant branches sway 

Far o'er the rushing river, 
It standeth grim and gray. — 

Gray with age and lonely, 
Yet full of interest dear. 

With all the fair surroundings 
By nature lavished here. 

The road along the ledges, 
The mountain stream and shore. 

Still keep their rugged beauty. 
As in the days of yore. 

And still the plunging waters 
The old time music wake, 

As o'er the rough built dam 
Their crystal torrents break. 



S6 



And down on the trees below 
Showers the diamond spray, 

And round in the rock- worn pools 
The circling eddies play. 

The old mill still retains 

Its ever famous nam; 
Nor e'en in its age outlives 

Its usefulness or fame. 

The floating dust drifts lazily 

Out of the open door, 
And within it settles down, 

Thick on the oaken floor. 

The spider's webs are dusty 
That hang along the wall, 

And from the beams and rafters 
In drooping festoons fall. 

The toiling miller, ghost-like, 
Moves on his faithful round, 

Most watchful and attentive 
To each familiar sound. 

Into the spacious hopper 

The grain comes rattling down- 
A wealth of Hfe and health 

Hid in the kernels brown; 

And fast the various gearings 
With rumbhng motion run; 

With constant jolt and jarring 
The skilful work is done. 



57 



And so the old mill remains, 
One haunt unchanged as yet — 

One of the pleasant places 
We nevermore forget. 

THE BLIND MILLER 

With cautious tread he finds his way 

About the dusty mill, 
As anxious as in earlier days 

Its duties to fulfil. 

With sense acute to hear and feel, 

Without the gift of sight. 
He still retains his wonted skill, 

And does his work aright. 

The waters o'er the rock built dam 

In crystal torrents pour, 
But their silv'ry sheen his darken'd eyes 

Shall witness nevermore. 

He cannot see the splashing wheel 
Nor whirring stones go round. 

But tells if they are moving right 
Entirely by their sound. 

And so, about the mill he goes, 

With ever list'ning ear, 
And careful, well-accustomed hand. 

To tend the rattling gear. 

And golden meal and snowy flour. 
Each falleth in its place, 

58 



Nor ever, through imperfectness, 
His wondrous skill disgrace. 

And no mistakes he ever makes 

In "grists" of various kinds, 
For though the bags are piled up high, 

He sure the right one finds. 

He knows the owner by his voice, 

And all speak kind to him. 
And often clearer eyes than his 

Grow strangely moist and dim. 

It is indeed a touching sight, 

That sightless man to see 
In constant gloom thus find his way, 

Yet toil so cheerfully. 

DEATH OF THE BLIND MILLER 

Stem winter with a blighthig hand 
Had touched the hills and plains. 

And the fruitful life of all the land 
Was chilled in all its veins. 

The streams that coursed the mountain side 
Long since had ceased to flew. 

Save in a shallow, sluggish tide 
Beneath the ice and snow. 

There was no "grinding at the mill" — 

The gate was shut alway, 
\nd day by day the mill wheel still 

In idle silence lay. 

59 1 



But he who with a constant care 
Had kept the rattling gear, 

No more could heed the changes there, 
Nor cold nor draught would fear. 

The current of life had ceased to flow, 
Chilled at its fountain head. 

And in the old mill to and fro 
No more his steps would tread. 

With sightless eyes, yet perfect skill. 
He long had labored there, 

Anxious its duties to fulfil. 
And all its burdens bear. 

A man of cheerful words and ways, 
Of patient heart and mind, 

"None knew him but to praise," 
As Christian true and kind. 

In faith, wherever duty led, 
His work on earth was done; 

And of him it is rightly said, 
"A truly good man gone." 

The sun once more will warmly shine. 
To melt the ice and snow, 

And from the earth, by power divine, 
A beauteous life will grow. 

And so, out of the shadow here, 

Is bom eternal light. 
And to the sainted dead how dear 

Will be immortal sight. 



60 



GUILFORD CENTENNIAL POEM 

Delivered on Guilford Green, July 4TH, 
1876. 

As swiftly through the quickening earth 

Enthrills electric fire, 
So proud, impulsive thoughts to-day 

Our inmost souls inspire, 
As we review the course of time, 

And find how much we owe 
For what was boldly dared and done 

One hundred years ago. 

A Nation's sweet Centennial bells ■ 

Are chiming far and near, 
And minghng melody of sound 

On every side we hear. 
From countless spires, from hills and dales — 

Upward to the echoing skies. 
In loud and tuneful harmony 

The glad vibrations rise. 



From north to south, from east to west, 

O'er all the favored land, 
One common, pulsing thought alone 

Bids every heart and hand 
With eager, patriotic zeal, 

A fit thanksgiving show 
For what was boldly dared and done 

One hundred years ago. 

The prosperous present gives honor 
Unto the struggling past; 

6i 



The prayers and sufferings of the few 

Fruition finds at last, 
When thus, miUions of freemen 

In grateful measure raise — 
To that heroic past, 

These tributes of their praise; 
Praise for what was dared and done! 

Praise to our noble sires! 
For the blows they struck to save 

"Their altars and their fires." 
Praise to the God who blessed those deeds 

And sanctified the strife, 
The pains, the passion, and the blood 

Which gave the nation life. 

Ay! praise and reverence to our God 

This day we seek to show 
For what was boldly dared and done 

One hundred years ago. 

Ring out, then, over hill and dale, 

O, sweet Centennial bells! 
For far and wide a glorious tale 

Your gladsome chiming tells. 

Ring out, O bells, your joyous peals! 

Ring out a voiceful tone. 
And make a nation's boundless weal, 

Its strength and honor known. 

Over the land and over the wave. 

Ring out in freedom's name! 
Over the homes of the free and the brave 

The prideful truth proclaim. 



62 



Tell of the deeds by patriots don«, 

Tell of the debt we owe 
For battles fought and victories won 

One hundred years ago. 

To keep this grand Centennial 

In a patriotic way, 
With joyful demonstrations, 

We are gathered here to-day; 
And 'mid these fair, familiar scenes 

Each other gladly greet. 
At home once more in this dear old place, 

As friends and kindred meet. 
In the "days that tried men's souls" 

One hundred years ago, 
Against the oppressions 

Of an invading foe, 
A band of our forefathers 

In consciousness of right, *' 
Went bravely forth, we are told, 

In freedom's cause to fight. 
And as a phrase of truthfulness. 

To every comrade dear, 
"H^g are all good Guilford souls!" 

Was then their word of cheer. 
And so, beneath our country's flag, 

We, too, are proud to say 
''We are all good Guilford souls T 

Who gather here to-day. 
Whether by birth or adoption 

This title we may claim. 
In all it intimates of honor 

Our interest is the same. 
"FF# art all good Guilford souls l' 



And we glory in the name 
Whose dear associations 

Are not unknown to fame, 
For Guilford has grand relics, 

Relics of earlier days. 
Telling of the olden times 

And of the olden ways. 
It has its legends, too, 

"By the aged often told," 
Tales of the early settlers — 

The hardy men of old. 
Tales of Indian craft; 

Of wild and savage life; 
Of deeds done at "Bloody Cove" — 

In harsh, ensanguined strife, 
When Uncas and his warriors 

In fierceness fought and bled, 
And a ghastly tragedy 

Performed at "Sachem's Head." 
And as Antiquarians 

Bring their greatest treasures forth 
On every grand occasion, 

And tell their varied worth. 
So we will hold proud converse 

O'er what we have to show 
For even more than twice 

One hundred years ago. 

Our old "Stone House" is a place 

Of great historic fame. 
Its story has an interest 

No other place can claim, 
And could that ancient building 

All of its past unfold, 

64 



How many incidents 

Might readily be told 
Of what has here transpired, 

Of daily woe and weal, 
Of labor and privations, 

And early Christian zeal. 
And, gazing upon those walls, 

The mind in fancy strays, 
And pictures those honest people. 

And all their plainly ways. 
We see the sturdy Saxons — 

In bearing brave and true, 
In everything unflinching 

To boldly dare and do! 
We see their wives and daughters. 

In homespun garments dressed, 
Fair matrons and fairer maidens, 

In healthful beauty blest. 
Fit sires and mothers of the men 

Whose deeds this day we show — 
The men who wrought our freedom 

One hundred years ago. 
And the blood of those old Saxons 

Showed out from time to time, 
And bred many an noble act 

For history and rhyme. 
And many an romance 

Around those lives we weave — 
Around those hearts so strong 

Either to love or grieve. 
And around those lives and loves 

Another life we see — 
The rude, untutored life 

Of red men, wild and free. 

65 



And on Agicomock's stream, 

And Menunkatuck's shore, 
And around fair Quonepaug 

They seem to swarm once more, 
And the curl of the wigwam's smoke 

The poet dreamer sees, 
While dusky forms are lurking 

Amid the forest trees, 
And 'neath the leafy arches 

Rings out the war whoop shrill, 
Awaking startling terrors 

From every echoing hill. 
But the dream soon vanishes. 

For lo! a railroad train 
With shrieking locomotive 

Comes speeding o'er the plain! 

Another place of interest 

Is where the Regicides hid, 
When British emissaries 

For golden favors bid, 
When good old Governor Leet 

His strategy displayed. 
And, with a tender conscience, 

Did royal powers evade. 
And whence, across "West Meadow," 

John Meigs was sent by night, 
A speedy post to Davenport, 

In aid of human right. 

And dovm through the gliding years 

The old-time spirit came, 
Inspiring many a soul to win 



06 



At least an honest name. 
And many with voice and pen, 

Acquired a just renown, 
Lawyers, doctors, and divines. 

Who honored well the town. 
But all these were lesser lights, 

Out- dazzled by the Sun! 
The great, immortal Halleck, 

Whose life was here begun. 
He walked these quiet streets. 

With thoughtful, busy mind, 
'The Poet and the gentleman, 

Of feelings warm and kind. 
Fond lover he, of nature, 

And well her language knew. 
And strength and dear delight 

From all her teachings drew. 
And with the birds and flowers, 

The trees and babbling brook, 
With drifting cloud and summer breeze, 

He sweet communion took. 

Illustrious bard ! No words of mine 

Are fit to speak thy praise, 
Yet reverently upon thy shrine 

My heart this tribute pays. 

And thought shall never cease to twine 
Fresh laurel wreaths for thee; 

Nor inspiration such as thine 
Lack honored memory. 

It is an heritage most rare 
Thy natal place can claim, 

67 



The sacred birthright cherished there 
To thy "immortal name." 

Though muse hke thine no place or time 

Can e'er exclusive own, 
Its music thrills through every clime, 

In every land is known. 

But meet it is that thou should'st sleep 
Where kindred footsteps stray, 

Thy native soil thy ashes keep, 
A holy trust alway. 

One more do we recall 

That it were well to name, 
Whose melody of thought, 

Might lauding notice claim. 
And his hfe, too, in memory, 

A favored niche shall fill. 
Nor soon will those who knew him well 

Forget the poet Hill. 
But we may not further choose 

From all the many known 
Of noble men, and women, too. 

Whose merits might be shown. 
And there are those here to-day. 

Whose hearts are "true as steel," 
And warm and sympathetic. 

All human need to feel. 
Men who have an influence 

As yet scarce understood. 
And working constantly 

For all the common good. 
And when their years are numbered 

68 



And all their life work o'er, 
They, too, shall well remembered be, 
And honored evermore. 

Your poet would be unjust 

Did he omit to say 
How much is due to woman. 

For what Old Guilford is to-day; 
And as minstrel bards of old 

Did oftentimes rehearse 
The virtues of the fair. 

In laudatory verse. 
So we would praise the ladies — 

In words of chosen grace, 
For all that they are doing 

To beautify the place. 

"United workers" are they, 

And faithful workers, too, 
And a charming taste display 

In everything they do. 

These fair scenes by nature blest. 
Their hands have fairer made, 

And their ambition knows no rest. 
No cares would e'er evade. 

Nor only this, they also show 

That they can financier; 
They "count the cost," and seldom owe. 

Or find their pride too dear. 

Their lamps are trimmed and burning 
To show that they are wise 



69 



And always most discerning 
Where public interest lies. 

When we who have wandered away, 

"By fate or fortune led," 
Back to the old hearthstones 

With willing footsteps tread, 
We note all these improvements — 

These varied changes made, 
Though sometimes, almost regretfully, 

We see old landmarks fade. 
Yet we feel that the place 

Is kept with kindly care. 
And that earnest, willing hands 

Do constant service there. 
And as pilgrims to their Mecca 

We come back to celebrate, 
With you who have kept the shrine. 

Our country's prosperous state. 

Although dark clouds at times 

Have shadows o'er it cast. 
Our land has all the fairer seemed 

Whene'er the gloom has past. 
And whatever darkens now 

Our country's brightening fame. 
We have the faith to feel these wrongs 

Will bring no lasting shame, 
But that the nation's glory. 

Its honor and its power, 
In time will have no stain to mar 

Fair freedom's priceless dower. 
And we have need to thank God to-day. 



70 



One flag waves o'er the land, 
And that beneath the stars and stripes 

We still united stand. 
Upon its field of azure blue 

No star is missing there! 
No severed constellation 

Does freedom's banner bear. 
And while, with eager hearts, 

Our gratitude we show 
For what was dared and done 

One hundred years ago, 
Let also thankful thoughts arise. 

And reverent words be said 
Over the flower-strewn graves ' 

Of our heroic dead, 
Who, in the nation's trial hour. 

Their lives so freely gave 
Our grand inheritance 

In perfectness to save. 

Although the wrongs of those days 

We may not soon forget. 
And though some stricken hearts 

Be sadly grieving yet. 
Still let all the enmity 

And bitterness forgive. 
And henceforth in brotherhood 

And perfect concord live; 
Then of this "Union of States," 

Will greater things be told 
When another century 

Its records shall unfold. 



71 



And as long as time shall last 

May they united stand! 
And Columbia's freemen ever say 

"God bless our native land." 

LAKE QUONEPAUG 

A restful scene of beauty 

Amid the rugged hills, 
Where every touch of nature 

With dream-hke interest thrills. 
It also has its legend, 

Now very seldom told. 
Yet should be known and cherished 

As in the days of old. 

The daughter of a chieftain 

For her true lover chose 
A brave and noted warrior, 

Among her father's foes. 
From that father's wrath they fled 

Toward the rising sun, 
And at Menunkatuck 

A fancied refuge won. 
But not long in peace they lived; 

The chieftain tracked them there, 
And boldly stood before them 

His vengeance to declare. 
But, just then, an earthquake shock 

Changed all his wrath to fear. 
And voice of the Great Spirit 

He, trembling, seemed to hear. 
And the ledge on which they stood 

With loud report was riven, 




o 
< 

z 

O 
D 

< 

-5 



And the chief from those he sought 

With mighty force was driven. 
Then came a rush of waters 

The land to overflow, 
But still, above their level. 

The rifted rock doth show. 
Two rough and solid masses — 

By every traveller seen, 
"Lover Rock," and "Chieftain Rock," 

With chasm deep between. 

Thus Lake Quonepaug was formed. 

And this its legend old 
That Indian tradition 

For many years has told. 



73 



PART SECOND 
Ithuriel's Spear and Other Poems 



ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 

"Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, 

Assaying by his devilish art to reach 

The organs of her fancy, and with them forge 

Illusions as he list, 

Vain thoughts, vain aims, inordinate desires, 
Blovi^n up with high conceits engendering pride. 
Him — thus intent, Ithuriel with his spear 
Touched lightly; for no falsehood can endure 
Touch of celestial temper, but returns 
Of force to its own likeness." Paradise Lost. 

Ithuriel, the angel guard of Eden's bower. 
Was armed, 'tis said, with spear of wondrous power, 
The lightest touch of whose celestial blade 
All arts deceptive, and all wrong betrayed. 
A weapon forged with an immortal skill. 
And pregnant with an electric thrill. 
No crafty wiles could e'er its test evade. 
But free from all disguise each wrong was made. 
Even Satan, in confusion, stood revealed. 
Although with subtle care and skill concealed. 
Arch-fiend of evil, in conceptions wise, 
Illusions rare the tempter vainly tries. 
And if, at last, he gained his purpose there 
Ithuriel alone the blame must bear. 
His slackness, not the weapon's lack of power, 
Gave Satan vantage in life's fateful hour. 
But bold deception then was new and rare. 
Nor Ithuriel burdened with o'er-anxious care. 
And so seldom in his accustomed round 
Were influences evil or disturbing found, 

77 



He all unconsciously too careless grew, 
And failed to "give the devil all his due." 
But could Ithuriel through our Modern Eden go, 
Each lurking sin and uncouth thing to show, 
No such excuse could ever now be made 
As lack of chance to carry on his trade. 
Could he expose the modern, hidden life, 
Disclosing all the venom, all the strife, 
But few would stand the test, but shrink dismayed, 
To find their secret motives thus displayed. 
Touched by the point of an Ithuriel Spear, 
And made in their true likeness to appear, 
More startling forms of deviltry would rise 
Than ever slyly haunted Paradise. 
Even careless eyes cannot help but see 
That things are not as they should rightly be. 
Near every virtue, and on every side. 
Some subtle evils ever-tempting hide, 
Through highways and byways of lust and greed 
Each quickening sense and appetite to lead. 
Till, by false reasoning and enticing art. 
They captivate the longing eye and craving heart. 
Even close to the paths we daily tread. 
Where men may seem by proper motives led. 
Apparent goodness might suddenly appear 
The shield of Sin beneath Ithuriel's Spear, 
And fair exteriors prove concealing guise 
Beneath which wrongful thought or dealing lies. 
For men and nations cloak their doubtful deeds 
To suit their pleasures or their fancied needs, 
And selfish actions and unlawful aims 
Too oft are called by softly- sounding names, 



78 



And ugly looking facts, to make them fair, 

Are silver-plated with the utmost care, 

And the man who the "lion's portion" takes 

And sport of human desolation makes, 

Proves the deed legal and his conscience frees 

If he can only pay his lawyer's fees. 

The world hath great progressive periods known, 

The first was called "The age of Stone," 

Next the "Bronze," and then "The age of Iron" came, 

And to give the present a distinctive name — 

With most significant, baptismal seal. 

It should be called ^'The age 0} Steair 

A name not used in an ambiguous way, 

But always spelled distinctly with an a. 

For far too many think that thieving pays. 

And live by robbery in a thousand ways, 

And seek with cunning and inventive brain 

Some self- advantage rapidly to gain. 

Though "wooden nutmegs" may be out of date 

The cheats are quite as "Yankeefied and great. 

A long-faced deacon in the days of old — 

A country grocer as the tale is told, 

With eye to profit, as well as trade, 

These plain instructions to his clerk conveyed, 

And bade him "sand the sugar and dilute the rum, 

And then to morning prayers come." 

With pious scruple and perceptions rare, 

He eased his conscience in his daily prayer, 

But the skilful swindlers of to-day 

Ne'er stay their cheatings long enough to pray. 

Nor their unlawful seekings after gain 

To "rum and sugar" profits now restrain. 

79 



In this "Age of Steal", the greatest knavery thrives, 

And scientific cheating wrongs our lives, 

And doubtful speculations too oft command 

The highest powers and talents of the land, 

Until all truly honest hearts exclaim. 

With rising wrath, yet overwhelming shame, 

"Upon what meat do these our Caesars eat" 

That thus they dare to wrong and cheat, 

And seek to find in private want and public need 

Some chance to satisfy their vicious greed? 

Some Parkhurst, with an Ithuriel's Spear, 

At times will make the devil's form appear, 

And blinded justice then, with courage brave. 

Lays heavy hand on each convicted knave. 

But still deceptions multiply and thrive. 

And in new forms prove Satan still ahve. 

Still working in his secretive way. 

Each yielding heart and mind to sway. 

What wild disturbance it would well create 

In things domestic, and in affairs of state. 

Could Ithuriel suddenly expose 

What now so many hope that no one knows. 

It would be awkward, yet amusing, too, 

If thus the whole truth of everything we knew. 

The cheats in word and deed, and e'en in dress, 

The queer deceptions that we ne'er should guess. 

The social frauds which often lead astray 

In such surprising and seductive way — 

The arts of love, the manufactured smiles. 

The made up beauty which so oft beguiles. 

These at a glance we should then discern 

Where now it needs experience to learn. 



80 



Ithuriel could show us all the tricks of trade 

By which fortunes in these modern times are made, 

And the "ways which are dark" would darker grow 

Could Ithuriel's Spear their darkness show. 

We should know then how Brokers their patrons break 

When they their '%'ery small commissions^^ take. 

We should know why bonds so often fail to bind, 

And ^^cornered,^' "bulls and bears" such freedom find. 

And why public stocks too often in these times 

Are punishment to those who do no crimes. 

And why he who gains may sometimes have the less, 

While he who fails has really great success. 

Could compensations and perquisites grand, 

His spear's detective services command, 

Ithuriel could now a full employment find, 

Enough to keep him in suspicious mind, 

And were it possible to create 

Another office in affairs of State, 

One for moral inspection would be wise 

Could we allure Ithuriel from the skies. 

If he would now detective duty do. 

And on a percentage put all rascals through. 

He would find it sure an easy thing 

To quickly put a nabob's fortune 'neath his wing. 

But, with a modern Ithuriel spear— 

With earnest purpose, and devoid of fear. 

We can traverse, in thought, life's devious ways, 

And with searching touch some forms of evil raise. 

No celestial temper thrills through the blade 

To awake swift consciousness where'er 'tis laid. 

And yet the submissive deference of men 

Admits no weapon is mightier than the pen. 

8i 



Pointed and polished, and of pliant make — 

Fit to be wielded for fair honor's sake, 

The mind's electric power can make it strong 

To show the right and to denounce the wrong. 

Pregnant with satire and with much of scorn 

It may with perfect fearlessness be borne; 

Even proudest sinners in their castles dare, 

Nor rank, nor title, nor profession spare. 

Wherever, Ithuriel-like, we wield this spear, 

Unnumbered wrongs will there appear. 

For the art deception is now a licensed trade. 

And the world whirls on in wildest masquerade. 

So that when we fain would grasp the right 

We cannot judge by hasty touch or sight. 

Our Mother Eve knew not the subtle power 

That caused her ruin in life's fateful hour. 

Nor dreamed she that things so fair concealed 

A sting whose wound no mortal skill e'er healed. 

Even in her midnight slumbers satanic art 

Wrought in her brain, and touched her throbbing heart. 

And all her sweetest gifts of sense and thought 

Some mystic, damning influence caught. 

Till loving touch, and taste, and beauteous hfe, 

With lasting and o'erwhelming shame were rife. 

And man still lives amid deceptive sights, 

Nor always questions rightly his delights. 

Even as of old, in unthought of guise, 

Man to corrupt, the wily tempter tries, 

And finds, as then, his toils are strong 

With mystic influence to deceive and wrong. 

Where'er the course of human life is led 

There Satan follows with a stealthy tread, 



S2 



As ready to assume his practised roll, 

And snare some priceless and immortal soul. 

Love, ambition, all worldly pride and joy, 

To some bad end he striveth to employ. 

He softly whispers in fond lover's ears 

The ever longing thoughts wild passion hears, 

And mars the perfect confidence of youth, 

And stains its simple purity and truth. 

Even with gloating fiendishness he tries 

Too oft to wreck what is left of Paradise. 

He tempts strong manhood in its noblest aim 

And through ambition brings often shame. 

He sits beside the student as he reads, 

And his young, pliant mind seducing leads — 

While poring o'er some wily-teaching leaf, 

To various doubtings and to unbelief. 

Even things that concern the Nation's weal 

The touch of an Ithuriel Spear should feel, 

For Satan is a politician shrewd 

With greatest diplomatic skill endued. 

And ever seeks to add some sulphurous clause. 

Some evil influence to the Nation's laws. 

"Our Country" is a pleasant sounding phrase, 

And proud associations sure to raise. 

Thoughts of the Nation's greatness and its power, 

Its vast importance increasing every hour — 

Thoughts of its freedom in Church and State, 

With grand conceptions of its future fate. 

"God and our Country" was the motto true — 

The pious watchword that our fathers knew. 

But now the men who make the country's laws. 

Too often labor in a different cause. 



83 



They loudly talk of services and deeds, 
And of what are the people's greatest needs, 
And yet are laboring for some selfish end, 
And creeping terrors through the countiy send. 
Gold gives the politician power and place, 
And gold, too often, covers up disgrace. 
And so the grasping Shylocks of the land 
Are ever reaching with rapacious hand, 
And statute laws to suit their purpose make 
When they desire to great advantage take. 

And so, by law, in freedom's name. 

They breed a curse of taxes, poverty, and shame. 

Our forefathers could never understand 

The present patriotism of the land. 

With honesty they battled for the right. 

And truth and purity was their delight. 

The common good was evermore their aim. 

And for themselves, a fair, untarnished name. 

The thoughts they uttered echoed through the earth 

As words of wisdom and intellectual worth. 

And, as rulers, they had dignity and will 

Successfully their duty to fulfil. 

But now it is a rueful shame to see 

Much weakness where the greatest strength should be. 

The people, too, have far too many ways 
That were not proper in our fathers' days, 
And few can claim, with much of truth, indeed, 
That they are any better in the lives they lead. 
Too many are fast, and presumptuous, too. 
And with frantic zeal their hobbies they pursue. 
From earliest dawn to latest set of sun 
Even at the fullest head of steam they run, 

*4 



Till daily custom seems to deaden sense, 

And make a just perception less intense. 

And constant habit and familiar sight 

Makes some things really wrong seem almost right. 

The way seems pleasant with the golden rays, 

Whose bright effulgence o'er the surface plays. 

And graceful movements, and delightful sound. 

The swiftly onward course of life surround, 

Till men pause not, or seem to know 

Such course, at last, may all too reckless grow, 

And it needs sharp probing with Ithuriel's Spear 

To show the risk and make the danger clear. 

Pride and extravagance — the nation's bane. 

Scatters the bulk of honest labor's gain. 

And far too many toil, with hand and head. 

For much of vanity and a little bread. 

Reckless of the future they gain and spend, 

And for life's follies impatiently contend. 

Ambitious of display and reputed wealth 

Men sacrifice their honor and their health. 

And even as they live, they die, nor think to save, 

But waste life's blessings while standing o'er its grave. 

And funeral pageant and pompous lust 

Strews golden favors with the mingling dust, 

Till common modern burial honors so much imply, 

That poor humanity cannot afford to die! 

Fashion was never more imperial than now. 
Before its mandates all too humbly bow. 
Full many things we use and wear to-day 
Tomorrow fashion bids us throw away 



85 



And take up something else, and we submit, 
And wear the garment although an ugly fit. 
Because 'tis something new, and made to sell. 
And made to he paid for, as we learn too well. 
For, with capacious maw, and constant greed, 
All take advantage of each fancied need 
Till those who are dancing in this modern day- 
Must e'en a regiment of fiddlers pay. 

A well-dressed woman is a beauteous sight — 
A source of admiration and delight. 
But the "human form divine" too often bears 
Wild monstrosities in the clothes it wears, 
And far too often, for the simple sake of change, 
Sweet woman's aspirations have too wide a range. 
Nor are they always sensible and plain. 
But border on the ludicrous and vain. 

To-day, she moves 'neath ponderous bulk and weight. 

With puffs and flounces in profusion great. 

E'en like a "ship of hne in fullest sail," 

With colors flying and a monstrous trail. 

Tomorrow, as though she feared some tempest near, 

We see her in a scantier garb appear. 

To-day she is gay with scarfs and ribbons bright — 

A flashing form of brilliant life and light. 

Tomorrow she comes forth in sombre hue. 

Nor trace of all her gaiety we view. 

To-day she wears upon her gracious head 

A bobbing thing of monstrous height and spread, 

Tom.orrow it may shrink to tenth the size 

And next to nothing meets our wondering eyes. 

While thus our "Angels" take them gaudy wings, 
And mar their beauty with outlandish things, 

86 



The modern man, in equal pride, 

Does also in the steps of fashion stride, 

And tricks himself up in conceited guise. 

And oft his manly dignity belies, 

Until a modern, full-fledged, strutting swell 

As genus homo would be hard to tell. 

Habits, as well as fashion, with exciting haste, 

The precious periods of existence waste. 

And our precocious youth are scarcely weaned 

E'er their "wild oats" they've sowed, and reaped, and 

gleaned. 
And, in the feverish, rapid course they run, 
They strive to live a dozen lives in one. 
A smooth-faced, sharp-eyed master in his teens, 
Knows fully everything "behind the scenes;" 
In a few days he learns a trade, 
In a few more his fortune is made. 
And then he fails, or else to Congress goes 
To show the many skilful tricks he knows. 
In his love-life he liveth faster still, 
And at love's fountain quickly drinks his fill. 
Quickly courts and marries — man's proper course. 
And then — as quickly applieth for divorce! 
In this, at first, perhaps he may be green. 
But constant practise makes him keen. 
And relevant to this — a source of shame, 
Connubial matters more attention claim. 
The devil here consistently exults, 
And figures up his great results. 
The matrimonial links are far too frail 
And break too easy, and in service fail. 



«7 



The God Hymen hath lost much skill and care, 
Or else of baser metal doth his bonds prepare. 
For the Church finds her power almost in vain 
To unite as one those whose lives are twain. 
Matrimony is oft a bargain made, 
One consummated with immense parade. 
Too many now are pledged in royal state 
To live together until — they separate. 
For far too many fail to comprehend 
Life's truest, noblest purposes and end, 
Blindly and selfishly life's paths are trod 
Unheeding duties owed to man and God. 
Such life is the kind of life that is bred 
In much of the literature now read — 
Full of excitement and of gilded sin, 
And with all life's deviltry crowded in. 
But, there are some superior souls, indeed. 
Who do not Sacred revelation need. 
For, without the aid of Scriptural text, 
They get their inspiration more direct. 
And from departed spirits learn the way 
That man should walk in this enlightened day. 
And yet, it really seems, at times, forsooth. 
As if they kept not closely to the truth. 
And if, as it is most commonly said, 
These are the immortal spirits of the dead. 
They are, most surely, quite degenerate. 
From what they were in mortal state. 
For what can we really think of those 
Who, as mortals, to dignity arose. 
And showed the greatest power of thought and tact, 
If such absurdities their spirits act? 



Well may we touch such spirits with an Ithuriel Spear 
And make their rightful character appear. 
We find lawyers, doctors and divines, 
All talking nonsense by outlandish signs. 
Think of the great and the illustrious few 
Who here such intellectual vigor knew. 
And whom it was natural to suppose would rise 
To superior wisdom in the skies — 
Think of their spirits coming back to show 
Such stupidity to their friends below! 
And why should they from heaven come down 
To show the foolish antics of a clown ? 
Or leave their "mansions in the skies" 
To tell us such undoubted lies? 
The wandering soul of Solomon, perhaps. 
Makes known its presence by peculiar raps. 
And, if we give good heed, will try to show 
Almost anything we may desire to know, 
Although we are sometimes shocked to learn 
How very queerly spiritual matters turn. 
And, above all, it is most passing strange 
How greatly tastes and occupations change. 
Washington, perchance, may be digging clams, 
And Webster and proud Plato packing hams. 
And, in some lower, secondary sphere. 
The Great Napoleon retail cake and beer! 
It scarcely needs an Ithuriel Spear 
To show the certain mischief lurking here, 
Sporting with human love which seeks to know 
The world beyond, to which the dying go. 
And, working on that love, disturbs the mind, 
And makes it to life's duties unresigned. 



89 



A viler monster creeps by night and day 
Along every exposed, unguarded way, 
And gloating sport of all humanity makes, 
As everywhere it swift advantage takes. 
Even as a right of conscience dares to claim 
A legal sanction to its course of shame. 
All other sin may have some scant disguise 
To cloak its vileness from fair virtue's eyes, 
But this with bold effrontery declares 
The very name and character it bears, 
And it needs no Ithuriel Spear to raise 
The liquor devil and expose its ways. 
Unshamed before the world it takes its stand 
And claims the law's protection through the land. 
The right to ruin both the body and the soul, 
To put the human mind beyond control. 
To lead men on to murder and rapine — 
To every phase of inhumanity and sin. 
Passions inflamed, widows and orphans made, 
Happy homes in desolation laid, 
Noblest natures to grovelling ways debased, 
And the "image divine" forever erased. 
All this for the love of a little gold 
Through the few short years of this life to hold. 

And now in lightsome tilt our spear again we bear 
On woman's ways and mischief lurking there, 
For woman "plays the mischief", as of old. 
When Satan sought her with a purpose bold. 
He ne'er forgets her failings or her yielding mind, 
And ever tempts her to some fresh excitement find. 
Keeps her uneasy, and curious yet, 
And apt her sweetest influence to forget. 



90 



Not all, but far too many thus he sways, 

And leads them to enjoy new-fangled ways. 

Against such we bear our satire-headed spear 

To make the weakness of their lives appear. 

By right man should rule with tender sway. 

By right woman should lovingly obey. 

But things are changing and woman lifts her head 

And walks a wilful way with boldest tread, 

Nor always keeps her home as loving wife, 

Enguarded from the world's unending strife; 

No longer is she absorbed in household cares, 

Man's every aim unshrinkingly she shares. 

She now can cut and carve the human frame 

Without a twinge of feeling, or a blush of shame, 

Although in pulsing man to cure an ache. 

Before she heals him, his throbbing heart may break. 

At least she sends a fever through his veins. 

By touch and look, when talking of his pains. 

And there are female parsons, too. 

Who sweetly round poor sinners coo. 

And man might well a full confession make 

When fair confessors such an interest take. 

The pulpit gained, she claims the rostrum, too, 

And, as a politician, would wonders do. 

So man has very little left to claim 

When woman takes his duties, as well as takes his name. 

And, if he yields to her the noblest rights he knows. 

He might as well — at once, surrender up his clothes. 

And, all submissive, by the fireside stay, 

And tend the baby, while the woman goes her way 

Amid the crowd to preach and rant, and rate 

Upon the proper rule of Church and State. 



91 



Eve of Adam a great advantage took, 

And gave by every tone, and touch, and look, 

A strong persuasion to the new desire 

The forbidden fruit was fated to inspire, 

Till Adam — unmindful of all other vows, 

In judgment yielded to his beauteous spouse, 

And, in consenting with her to take and eat, 

Gave then to Satan a triumph most complete. 

Well did the tempter here his cunning show, 

And man's great failing seemed to know. 

His non-resistance to the tears and smiles 

With which fond woman evermore beguiles. 

And woman has a wondrous power, indeed. 

By her woman's ways the sterner sex to lead, 

And by her witchery, at times, she brings 

Man's ways to suit her own in doubtful things. 

Yet not all provoke the rebuking word. 

Nor should a general condemnation be inferred. 

For, as when his heart-life of love began. 

Woman is still "Heaven's best gift to man." 

Best when to that heart-life she keepeth true 

And beyond her love hath ambitions few — 

The best — as man ever loves her best, 

The pure recipient of affections blest. 

Not the best when she leaves her loving sphere 

And in man's duties seeks to interfere. 

Not the best when, to gratify her pride. 

Her fascinating arts are ill applied. 

But, too often, she is the "power behind the throne"- 

The secret influence to the world unknown. 

By which rich bonus and sinecures great 

Are filched from the treasury of State, 



92 



And bedazzled statesmen readily swear 

That all is right, and honest and fair. 

Then "Flora McFlimsy" has ''something to wear," 

Dresses of satin, and ornaments fair — 

Diamonds and laces, all the possible things 

That money to Flora McFlimsy brings. 

Surely the times are sadly out "of joint" 

When Satan can convicting finger point 

To those in high places who examples set 

Tempted and tempters will not soon forget. 

And from such places the darksome currents tiow 

Which swell the sickening tide of public woe. 

The devil's note book bears many a name 

Of those who oft his close attention claim 

Among the higher ranks, the rich and great, 

Nor all cashiers, or officers of State. 

Trusts and monopolies are his delight, 

All that mars life and tramples on the right. 

Knowing the curse of wealth when'er misused, 

The curse of power too readily abused, 

He strives to help the rich to richer grow, 

And makes the poor a poorness more oppressive know. 

And to be faithful with our Ithuriel Spear, 

We must give the poor a little prodding here. 

For they too often try to imitate 

The costly patterns of the rich and great. 

With lack of judgment they their earnings spend 

For things unneeded, and graspingly contend 

To make their home life a useless show, 

Where none can ever true contentment know. 

For with these things they take a grievous care, 

With constant struggle to all their obligations bear. 



93 



And then they elsewhere ever lay the blame, 

And their condition wrongfully defame. 

So Satan sports with human life and human ways 

And everywhere his damning art displays, 

And still seeks by some foul, deceptive blow 

All that is pure and good to overthrow. 

As of old — in most insinuating ways, 

His devilish wit continually displays. 

And it would really need an Archangel's power 

As manifested in fair Eden's bower, 

And a perfectly celestial tempered blade, 

To have life's evils undisguised displayed. 

For our beloved country's future weal 

We cannot but the deepest interest feel, 

And in that future trust there lies 

Rich store of blessings now hidden from our eyes. 

The possibilities that we might claim 

Of power and wealth, and undying fame — 

Of the glory that ought to rest upon the land. 

Are, beyond all conception, vast and grand. 

But on the purity of Church and State 

Depends entirely all its future fate. 

And — Ithuriel-like, we should seek with care 

Whatever has an evil influence there, 

And from our Eden — with purpose strong. 

Drive forth each lurking and corrupting wrong. 

And then — at last, the time may come when none may 

fear 
The sharpest probings of an Ithuriel Spear. 



94 



IN MEMORY OF MINOT A. OSBORN 

(Editor of the New Haven Register) 

Into the pleasant course of life 

There comes, once more, the keenest pain, 
For the dirge of Death is tolling 

Into our lives a saddening strain. 

For a true man has passed away: — 

A noble and beloved one, 
Whose steadfast, earnest course is o'er, 

Whose earthly work is done. 

He needs no lauding eulogy 

To make his many virtues known. 

For all, with sympathetic thought, 
His ever kindly influence own. 

And yet we fain would speak of him 

"In words of chosen grace," 
And a true expression of his worth 

With loving interest trace. 

A faithful friend and counsellor: — 

A help to every one in need. 
In affection and in charity 

Most generous in word and deed. 

The world in which he lived will miss 

His bold and ever ready pen, 
That scourged all treachery and wrong 

And touched the hearts and minds of men 



95 



The influence of that busy life 

No touch of Death can fully Wight, 

For what he taught will long inspire 
Some soul to battle for the right. 

MODERN GIANTS 

Great giants lived in olden times 
Who kept the world in fear; 

By brutal force and monstrous crimes 
They wrought their purpose drear. 

And often men in modern days 

Excite a fearful dread, 
For they are giants in their ways, 

By evil motives led. 

And plots as deep they lay 
To hold their victims fast. 

And oft a greedier lust display 
Than giants of the past. 

Nor single-handed do they stand — 

These giants of to-day; 
But everywhere together band, 

The people to dismay. 

In Trusts and Syndicates combined, 

They seek to gather gold, 
In every need of man they find 

Some way to wealth untold. 

By power of gold the laws they make, 
To suit their selfish aim, 

96 



And then, with ease, advantage take, 
And all as legal claim. 

And so, the poor may suffer pain — 

In hunger and in cold. 
While everywhere these giants gain 

Their bounteous store of gold. 

THE EDITOR 

His form is cast in humanity's mold, 

And of common dimension, too, . 
Yet he is always expected to hold 

Talents uncommon, to will and to do. 

Like the fabled fellows, who lived of old, 
He piles up the mountains of thought, 

And, tugging away, in labors untold, 
His triumphs gigantic are wrought. 

Unceasing he works, he's never at rest, 

For the world, unsated with news, 
Keeps asking for more, the latest and best, 

And he cannot, he dare not refuse. 

Big sermons and speeches, stories and rhymes. 
With "items" both ancient and new. 

Suiting the people and suiting the times, 
He must faithful and constant review. 

The "doings of Congress," the "fortunes of war," 
With schemes financial, the losses and gains, 

The movements commercial, with reasons thrrefor. 
He always, and clearly explains. 

97 



How much he must know! there's nothing on earth, 

In science, in doctrines or art. 
But he must search out its meaning and worth, 

And all to the public impart. 

Nor only deals he in subjects profound, 

His reason must mingle with fun, 
And the world will laugh and the joke go round. 

When the editor scribbles a pun. 

And last, but not least, year in and year out. 

He duns his subscribers for pay, 
And for the dollar you owe him, no doubt, 

The poor fellow is suffering to-day. 

THE PRINTER'S DEVIL 

Of all impudent imps, there's none 

To match the "printer's devil!" 
So slyly is his mischief done. 

So pregnant, too, with evil. 

A great delight he often takes 

In ruining reputation. 
And at each author's shame he makes 

A grin of exultation. 

By words misplaced, sometimes left out. 

And other words inserted, 
A writer's sense is clothed in doubt — 

To foolishness converted. 

And when it's done, 'tis printed fast, 
And thousands quickly read it, 

98 



And though the truth comes out at last 
The pubhc seldom heed it. 

For things patched up, though almost new, 

Look always old and rusty; 
And gems of thought once fractured through, 

Are always dark and dusty. 

To seek redress, there's little use, 

Experience and pride forbid it. 
We always hear this one excuse, 

^^The printer'' s devil did it." 

BROTHER JONATHAN AND INDEPEN- 
DENCE DAY 

Year after year the wheels of time have rolled. 
And Brother Jonathan is growing old. 
More than a hundred years is it since he 
First had an earnest longing to be free, 
And "guessed" that he would have his way, 
And celebrate his Independence Day. 

And Jonathan was full of grit and kept his word, 
And quite a rumpus in the family stirred. 
No "force of arms" could bring him back again 
Nor swerve him from his purpose then, 
When once he undertook to have his way. 
And keep his Independence Day. 

Mother England could not make him "come to tea," 
Although she brought the choicest o'er the sea. 
All stamped and sweetened with a rousing tax, 

99 



Instead, he grabbed his battle axe, 

And said he wanted nothing but his way, 

And right to keep his Independence Day. 

And — as in those early days of long ago. 
Still does he his self-reliance show, 

And bold progression in everything he makes, 
Nor fears, nor fails, in what he undertakes. 
And so, he still proudly has his way. 
And yearly keeps his Independence Day. 



CHILDREN OF THE BRAIN 

Our thoughts are our children, 

Offspring of the brain; 
Bringing sometimes pleasure. 

Sometimes bringing pain. 

Some are wild and reckless, 

Running oft astray, 
Causing many heartaches, 

"On life's devious way." 

Some are good and gentle, 

Born to help and cheer. 
Thoughts we ever cling to, 

"Thoughts to mem'ry dear." 

Some are happy children, 
With no sense of wrong, 

Thoughts of joyous nature, 
Full of mirth and song. 

lOO 



Some are woful wicked, 

Ugly thoughts are they, 
Maddening, tempting, daring, 
To a downward way. 

Sad are some, and gloomy, 

Seeing nothing bright. 
Seeking sombre shadows, 

Shrinking from the light. 

Varied are the tempers. 

Either true or vain. 
Of the oft-neglected 

Children of the brain. 

Strive to watch them closely, 
Train them hour by hour, 

Till they come to honor, 
Full of truth and power. 

Thoughts that men will reverence. 

Bringing joy and gain; 
Noble, happy children, — 

Children of the brain. 



lOI 



HYLAS 

Hylas, an orphan youth of old, 

Was reared, as ancient bards have told, 

By Hercules with tender care, 

Who loved him for his beauty rare. 

Stern warrior, with nerves like steel, 

He yet could warm affection feel. 

And, though oft swayed by scenes of strife. 

He cherished well that young, fair life. 

No woman's tender tempting smile 

Could ever thus his soul beguile, 

Or give the satisfying joy 

Hercules found in that dear boy. 

Close to his side he kept the youth. 

In all his innocence and truth. 

Seeking to guard him well with watchful skill 

From e'en the slightest chance of ill. 

But oft the closest, tenderest care 

Neglects some well known, dangerous snare 

So common to accustomed eyes 

That few the danger realize. 

And so, when through the Mysian shade, 

Hercules and his Hylas strayed. 

There came a moment of relaxing care, 

Amid the fair surroundings there. 

And wandering from Hercules' side — 

His sturdy champion and guide. 

Without one thought of peril near. 

Young Hylas found the fountain clear — 

The crystal spring of Mysian fame. 

Out of whose depths the naiads came, 



I02 



Then, thirsting in the summer heat, 
He craved the water, cool and sweet. 
And, kneehng at the fountain's brink, 
Refreshing draughts began to drink. 
And, as he bowed above the wave, 
That thus such sweet refreshment gave. 
The water nymphs who dweh below — 
In all their charms that naiads know — 
Soon spied his handsome face, 
And lithesome form of matchless grace. 
And, with one accordant thought — 
To quickening act and feeling wrought. 
At once desired to tempt the boy, 
Their love and passion to enjoy. 
Up through the waters then they rose, 
Their charms delightful to expose. 
And Hylas as he saw them rise 
Did not discreetly close his eyes, 
Nor from the voluptuous sight 
His safety find in bashful flight. 
Too long he gazed and then — he fell, 
And weakly yielded to the naiads' spell, 
And, yielding thus, no warrior brave, 
Or arm of strength could Hylas save. 
For down they bore him far below 
To fate and fortune none might know. 

Hercules hasting to the place — 
His missing Hylas's steps to trace. 
Heard from the fountain's depths arise 
That well-known voice in echoing cries. 
But all his efforts were in vain 
His loved companion to regain. 



103 



In fiercest wrath the warrior raged, 
And all his utmost powers engaged. 
No will of his could reach below, 
Or powerful spell of nymphs o'erthrow, 
And so, perforce, with anger great. 
He left young Hylas to his fate. 

So oft the loved and beauteous fall, 
When charms of voice and form enthrall, 
And strong desires, and passion bold, 
The yielding soul in bondage hold, 
While virtue mourns the lack of power 
To rescue in temptation's hour. 



THAT AWFUL AUTO 
By Criticus and Co. 

To own an auto was my aim — 
My very great ambition, 

Though quite a luxury to claim 
For one in my position. 

I checked expenses every way, 
In methods most restraining. 

Foregoing comforts day by day. 
Without the least complaining. 

In time, I had the cash in hand 
To get the kind I needed, 

Then every catalogue, I scanned, 
And every "ad" I heeded. 



104 



And soon I bought a number one — 
A thing of strength and beauty, 

That looked all right, and safe to run 
For pleasure or for duty. 

My mind was in exalted state 
When thus my wish attaining; 

Mine truly was a happy fate 
In such an auto gaining. 

And dow^n the street I grandly rode 
In manner most unfearing. 

I speeded on, and then I slowed, 
And practised on the steering. 

But, all at once, it gathered speed 
And got beyond controlling, 

And like a crazy thing indeed. 
It down the street went rolling. 

And soon it struck a baker's cart 
And sent his biscuits flying, 

Then took another furious start, 
All obstacles defying. 

Thus far I kept my seat, with will 

To subjugate that auto. 
But right to conquer and to kill 

Now seemed to be its motto. 

For just ahead, to my dismay, 

I saw the foaming river. 
And knew that in some hurried way 

I must myself deliver. 



And so, in frantic haste I jumped,— 
To save myself from slaughter. 

As down the bank that auto bumped 
Then blew up under water. 

Then I awoke! It was a dream, 
But oft it makes me shiver, 

So realistic did it seem — 
That auto — and — that river. 



ELECTION ON THE PLANET MARS 

They have just had an election 

Upon the planet Mars, 
And, by wireless connection, 

They telegraphed the Stars. 

The earth came in the Martian circuit 

And caught the flying news. 
And now we know how Martians work it 

When they their rulers choose. 

No man there can have position 

In the affairs of state 
Except on one condition. 

On that he must be straight. 

He must have a pile of money 

And shell it out quite free, 
Or — what seems as funny. 

His friends must bankers be. 

io6 



They must send the dollars flying 

If he hasn't got the dough; 
Pay for music and for lying, 

And lots of foolish show. 

For votes? — Oh! no! that's forbidden 
Right there they shut the bars, 

"All above board," nothing hidden 
Upon the planet Mars. 

After all the gush and blowing 
Each swears how much he spent, 

And if one has a meagre showing 
There's surely discontent. 

Poor men, good men, seldom stand alone. 

The dollars win the fight, 
Although the truth is plainly shown, 

Good cash may down the right. 



FOOTBALL^ 

Examinations have commenced 

For nineteen hundred and three; 

Strong of nerve and perfect muscle 
Every football man must be. 

Through the coming months of practice 
This must be the chiefest aim; 

Little else can have attention 
Or a greater interest claim. 



107 



For the game means life and money; 

Some must lose and some may gain; 
And in ugly rush and struggle 

There may be unmeasured pain. 

Twenty killed and sixty crippled 

Was the record of last year; 
Such the wicked consummation 

In this game they hold so dear. 

Twenty strugghng for the pigskin 
Got their first diploma sure, 

But not engrossed on parchment 
Long in honor to endure. 

Sixty strong, impulsive fellows 

Punted with a vigor great, 
And with broken limbs and noses 

They at last did graduate. 

Gained their life-long marks of conflict- 
Of their struggling in the mire, 

Like a lot of bears and tigers. 
Truly brutal in desire. 



io8 



THE MAN WITH A HORN 

He was very deaf and carried a horn, 

As a "harking horn" it then was known, 
It was made of tin, and was two feet long, 

A primitive, uncouth thing to own. 
But it always answered its purpose well 

And helped him to gather the news; 
It hung from his neck by a home-made string 

That kept it convenient to use. 
The most of his time he spent on the street, 

And not a single soul would he spare, 
But held up that horn to every one 

And kept his victims shouting there. 
But all those that he owed could never make 

That shrewd old man their message hear, 
And the fact that they were dunning him 

Would never enter his deadened ear. 
It was thus that he ignored his debts, 

And made his sad infirmity pay, 
By blufhng his anxious creditors off 

In this simple and successful way. 



109 



THE SHADES OF MORTIMER 

It was a sultry summer night, 

Too hot to think of sleeping; 
The moon was shining clear and bright 

Its usual vigil keeping. 

The chimes of Wesleyan — on the hill, 
The midnight hour were pealing. 

And o'er the city — calm and still, 
The cadence notes were stealing. 

I dressed myself and wandered out 

My course but little heeding, 
My restless steps — no doubt. 

Some canny influence leading. 

For in old Mortimer, close by, 

I found myself a roaming. 
Amid the tombstones grim, and high, 

And ghastly in the gloaming. 

Through weeds and briars I made my way 
And at my courage wondered. 

'Twas bad enough to come by day, 
But now I felt I'd blundered. 

For all at once I voices heard 
And knew that spooks were walking. 

And soon I caught each murmuring word 
And understood their talking. 



no 



'Twas really sad to hear them rave; 

One ghost great grief was showing 
Because he could not find his grave, 

So high the grass was growing. 

They said it was a shameful sign 
To have their graves neglected 

When Riverside was kept so fine, 
From vandals rude protected. 

"That's so!" — by sudden impulse stirred, 
I found myself then shouting; 

They fled without another word, 
It closed their nightly outing. 



Ill 



"YOU MUST NOT TELL" 

While passing slowly down the street, 
I met old Scandal-Tongue one day, 

Who grabbed me through the button-hole, 
And made me hear his wondrous say. 

With sanctimonious phiz drawn down 
In troubled aspect grave and stem. 

In confidence he told the tale, 
He was so very sad to learn. 

It was indeed a "sickening case;" 
If true, most blighting to the fame 

Of one who hitherto had borne 
An honest and untarnished name. 

And with many a deep drawn sigh. 

And with eyes upturned, in horror, too, 

Old Scandal fairly groaned, and said, 
He ne'er such vile corruption knew. 

But his story done, it seemed to me 
His mind was rather more at ease: 

In fact he had such a curious look, 

I thought he would either laugh or sneeze. 

Then all at once, in cautious mood, 

With wisely twist he cocked his head, — 

With hand upraised, in warning held, — ■ 
In low concemful voice he said: 

"You must not tell! No, not for the world," 
"/ would not have su^h stories go. 



"I think so very ?nuch of him (?) 
"And then it may not all be so." 

I left him then in attitude — 
Although in confidence discreet, 

Nine times that day he button-holed 
His helpless victims on the street. 

SLANDER 

It was first a jealous thought, 

Or a lightly spoken word, 
From which the vilest meaning 

Was readily inferred. 

One said he "should not wonder," 
Or he "guessed that it was so," 

And the next one who told it 
Claimed it as a fact to know. 

Then a hundred tongues were loosened, 
And swift-winged the story flew. 

And often as related 
In its magnitude it grew. 

And all through the gossip world 

It was "confidential" told, 
And all who heard it were pledged 

The story never to unfold. 

O no! they must not tell it, 

For "perhaps it was not true," 
Although each one intimated 

He had "not told one half he knew. 

"3 



And so these social vultures 

Picked their victim bone by bone, 

Still whining, as they gossipped. 

That such vileness ne'er was known. 

DREAMLAND LIFE 

When sleep each outward, active sense, 
In lightsome bondage holds, 

The inward mystery of thought, 
In dreamland life unfolds. 

Strange fictitious life, that seems too true, 

In all its joy and pain, 
To be but the vain imaginings 

Of a half-unconscious brain. 

Far from the paths we daily tread. 

The restless spirit strays, 
Forgetful of realities. 

In shadowy, dreamland ways. 

Sometimes the deepest darkness lies 

On dreamland hill and dale, 
And ghostly shapes and nameless fears. 

The wandering soul assail. 

But oftener far sweet sights and sounds, 

And joy and love are there. 
And a golden sunset glor)' makes 

All dreamland "bright and fair." 

In dreamland, too, with fond delight. 
Dear friends we sometimes meet; 

114 



"Long lost, but ne'er forgotten ones," 
With hallowed feelings greet. 

With them we walk through dreamland scenes, 

And pleasant converse hold, 
With all the confidence of love, 

And sympathy untold. 

And then, too soon, we wake to know 

The truth of life once more. 
And sigh for what we leave behind 

On dreamland's mystic shore. 

MINISTERING SPIRITS 

It must be true that they come back. 
And that at times we feel them near. 

Such peace, such sweetness do they bring, 
So real their presence doth appear. 

And when is there so fit a time 
As in the stillness of the night. 

When the wearied body is at rest. 
And one forgets life's troubling fight. 

The longing soul can sense them then 
In freedom from the weight of care, 

And so they come, so fair, so pure, 
A ministration kind to bear. 

Are we not truly happy then? 

And when we wake we often hold 
A little while the joy they bring 

In the message they have told. 

115 



FROM SHORE TO SHORE 

Along the rugged shore of time 
With weary steps we stray, — 

Watching the ever-flowing tide, 
Bearing our hopes away. 

Close to our feet the waters roll — 

The sullen, surging sea; 
Beyond which lies the pleasant land 

Where oft we long to be. 

We long the wonders there to view. 

On that delightful shore ; 
Where perfect beauty, perfect life. 

Endure forevermore. 

Lov'd ones are passing o'er the wave, 
In that bright home to dwell; 

But none of them come back again, 
Of that fair land to tell. 

But we know 'tis a place of rest, 

Where all are free from care- 
Where none e'er suffer pain or grief, 
Nor heavy burdens bear. 

And so we, longing, watch and wait, 

While others go before. 
Until our summons, too, shall come. 

To pass from shore to shore. 



ii6 



FROSTWORK 

On the windows a hand unseen 

Through the winter night hath wrought, 

Pencilhng a marvellous screen, 
With mystic beauty fraught. 

Light and shade in soft embracings, 
Varied forms of grace impart: 

Wavy lines and silv'ry chasings, 
Far beyond all mortal art. 

Through a foliage deftly growing 
The morning sunlight streams, 

Till with starry brightness glowing 
All in jeweled splendor gleams. 

O, rare and radiant tracing 

Of branch, and leaf, and flower! 

Pearly lightness interlacing 
In fairy forest bower. 



117 



THE OLD PINE TREE 

In stately loneliness it stands; 

A grand and ancient tree, 
And tribute of respect demands 

To grace its dignity. 

Its towering form — as giant strong, 

Clothed in a garb of green. 
Has here for generations long, 

Unnumbered changes seen. 

And as one stands beneath its shade 

There almost seems to be 
A something human — half betrayed, 

In this old monarch tree. 

The winds, which sweep its branches through. 
Have mournful, voice-like tone. 

As though they would with speech endue 
To make its story known. 

New life has come, and life has gone, 

With all life's hope and fear. 
In strange procession passing on, 

Since it has flourished here. 

And still it stands — as giant strong, 

A far off landmark seen, 
And yet may stand for decades long. 

Clothed in its garb of green. 



n8 



IN MEMORY OF W. C. FOWLER 
Professor of Geology, Amherst College 

The end hath come, and we, who stood so near, 
Are barred from the famihar sight of him 
Who Hngered long upon hfe's outward threshold 
Ready to depart, yet waiting for a few more kindly 
words. 
His form was slightly bowed, his hair was gray; 
He was an old man, and yet there gleamed 
Upon his countenance the cheering freshness 
Of an undimmed intellect. 
His still firmly modulated voice gave utterance 
To language purely and correctly wrought. 
With slight betrayal of hfe's waning powers, 
Or weakening of the finely pohshed mind. 
Along the corridors of time there came 
The final summons to our aged friend. 
We knew that he must leave us, and yet, 
We could not bear to have him go. 

In those last sad moments we thought of all 

The pleasant hours that we had passed together. 

He had ever led us on to noble thoughts; 

We had heard him talk of the eventful scenes 

Of his ever active and most earnest life. 

He had painted, with most graceful art, word pictures 

Of other days, until we, too, seemed to five in time 

long past 
And make acquaintance with world-famous men — 
The patriots, statesmen, the poets and the scholars 
Of an uncorrupted, brilhant age; 
Many an hour had been spent with him in his quiet 
study; 

119 



With mutual interest we had read the thoughts of 

giant minds, 
Preserved in ancient tomes, where outward semblance 
Seemed to tell of strong and sternest judgments, — 
Of criticisms of all the elements and sophistries of 
human life. 
And now, he, too, must be numbered with those 
Who had gone before, and we are left to read 
The volumed treasures of his searching mind. 
Not as we have read the thoughts of other men, 
But with a constant, kindly memory 
Of the courteous, hale old man. 

BURNING OF THE BROOKLYN THEATRE 
Dec. 28, 1876 

Beauty and strength and manly pride 

In gaiety were gathered there, 
Life's daily duties laid aside 

In glad forgetfulness of care. 

Fair forms were there with hearts that beat 

In confidence of thought elate. 
Responsive to love's music sweet, 

Unconscious of a fearful fate. 

The passing pleasures of the hour 
Were wrought with wonder-working skill, 

Impassioned with exquisite power. 
Each inmost consciousness to thrill. 

All seemed well; no dreadsome thought 
Awoke the slumbering sense of fear, 
^ Nor over- anxious spirit caught 
Perception of the danger near. 

120 



No thought there was of pain or woe, 

But soul met soul; and eyes were bright, 

And hearts were warm and cheeks aglow 
With cherished dreams of dear delight. 

But, ah, a flash! a cry! and lo! 

A scene no soul had dreamed of came, 
As swiftly burst in fiery glow 

An avalanche of flame! 

One single instant of suspense. 

And then an agony of strife! 
A struggling, awful and intense. 

Embattling for a chance of life. 

Alas, no hope! in vain the prayers. 

In vain the terror stricken cry! 
In horrifying, dire despair, 

The doomed all crushed and helpless lie. 

Into a hell of fire pitiless thrown! 

O God! how torturing and strange, 
From graceful movements and melodious tone, 

How inconceivable the change. 

One brief moment from joy to pain! 

From visions beautiful and bright— 
From cheerful thought to saddest strain, 

From light and love to darkest night. 



YOUNG AMERICA 

Young America slumbers not, nor dreams 

The golden moments of his life away; 
No "wayside bowers" where pleasure perfect seems, 

Have power to woo his earnest steps astray. 

Daring and doing, in his free-born might, 
He presses forward, with a craving mind. 

To tread the path of knowledge and of right; 
Nor siren songs can tempt, nor passion bind. 

Even as a school-boy — vigorous and gay, 

He glories in his heritage of name, 
And o'er the historic page, day by day, 

Finds inspiration in his country's fame. 

With a quickening pulse and a flashing eye 

He reads and thinks, and, with ambition rife. 

Chafes with impatience for the hours to fly 
Which keep him from the honored lists of life. 

It matters not how humble be his birth, 

The highest aims are free to all; 
To resolution and to honest worth 

The noblest gifts of wealth and honor fall. 

No tinselled, tilted rank restrains his mind; 

No privileged class o'er him holds prideful sway; 
From lowliest station he can find 

Upward and onward an opening way. 



122 



Where'er his zealous aspirations tend 
Abundant means his native land affords, 

Through which, at last, his dauntless hopes may end 
In full fruition and in rich rewards. 



VICTORY 

Swift o'er the wire flies startling news, 
A battle fought! A victory won! 

Rebellion checked, a stronghold gained, 
And mighty deeds of daring done. 

How the heart of the nation throbs 

As speeds the welcome word; 
What sounds of joy come echoing back. 

Where'er the tale is heard. 

But hark! 'mid all the boisterous mirth, 

And loud exultant tones. 
The agony of war wails forth 

In smothered shrieks and groans. 

The voice of Death — a torturing strain, 
Floats on with the conquering swell. 

And the voice of Grief from a million homes 
Where the stricken hearted dwell. 

A battle fought! A victory won! 

Glory and honor gained; 
But the welcome words with the crimson blood 

Of our ovra loved ones are stained. 



123 



A CASTLE IN THE AIR 

In early life when free from care 
I built a castle in the air, 
And filled it with enchantments rare 
Of beauty and of melody. 

But only for a summer sky 
I kept that castle in the air, 
Full soon I found it would not bear 

The shock of tempests passing by. 

E'er long those glamoured hours were o'er, 

That castle fair in ruins lay, 

Its treasures vanished in a day. 
And all was lost forevermore. 

And yet it was not all in vain, 

I built that castle in the air, 

Or dreamed those dreams that seemed so fair, 
Which ended thus in bitter pain. 

Life henceforth had many a care. 

And it was long before regret was dead, 
But all, at last, to better effort led 

Than building castles in the air. 



134 



IT IS BEST TO HAVE FAITH 

It is best to have faith in all, 
And sometimes be betrayed, 

Than always fear to be deceived 
And confidence evade. 

Beneath the Ocean's rolling wave 
Sad wrecks unnumbered lie, 

Yet men still sail from shore to shore, 
And fortunes gain thereby. 

The songful birds heed not the wind, 
Nor stay their joyous flight. 

Though sometimes rudely borne afar 
With fierce, impetuous might. 

And so some hearts we dearly trust 
May false and treacherous prove. 

And yet 'tis better far to live 
In constant faith and love. 

And he who loves and trusts the most 
Will greatest pleasure find, 

And love and faith as trustful gain 
To satisfy his mind. 



"5 



NO LIFE SO FAIR 

No life so fair but it must bear 

Some disappointments here, 
Its brightest dreams, its sunniest gleams, 

May end in darkness drear. 

Thought travels fast, yet hurries past 

Realities in vain; 
Each sense refined, of heart or mind, 

May bring some grief or pain. 

And friendly zeal may oft congeal, 

As time and distance part. 
For constant change, where'er we range. 

Awaits the human heart. 

E'en deepest bliss, love's fondest kiss. 
Still longs for something more — 

Some deeper thrill the soul to fill 
With joy unknown before. 



126 



FUGIT TEMPUS 

The moments are flying, 

Soon passing away, 
For joy or for sighing, 

They never delay. 

On swift pinions fleeting 

They hurry along; 
For parting or greeting, 

They never prolong. 

Even moments of sorrow 
Ever onward are pressing, 

To-day and to-morrow, 
Sure movement possessing. 

The moments are going. 
In peace or in strife, 

No stay ever knowing, 
As measures of hfe. 



127 



ON MOUNTAIN HEIGHTS 

Upon the lofty mountain heights 

An all pervading grandeur lies, 
Which thrills through every quickening sense 

As crests on crests far upward rise. 

Above the world's unceasing din — 
Its ever wearying strife and care, 

The work of ages stands revealed 
In most impressive records there. 

Height upon height, in massive piles — 

Uplifted by titanic power. 
The giant pinnacles of rock 

O'er deep and rugged chasms tower. 

There silence reigns, save when the clouds 
Move earthward with a sullen roar, 

And down the crumbling mountain side 
In swift descending torrents pour. 

Or when the eagle, proudly soaring 
Towards the azure of the sky, 

Circles awhile, then, downward sweeping, 
Gives forth its shrill and wailing cry. 

Silent, massive, grand and beautiful! 

Bathed in sunlight, or wrapped in shade. 
Snow-capped, or standing grim and gray, 

A constant inspiration made. 

Come up, then, to the mountain heights! 
Up from the toiling world below, 

128 



And more of God's great handiwork, 
And nature's highest glory know. 

Come where the breath of Hfe is pure, 
Where souls expand with thoughts sublime, 

And draw more closely to the truths 
Of all eternity and time. 

TOURMALINE 

Whence thy beauty Tourmaline? 

Tell me true I pray, 
How didst thou thy colors win 

Gleaming bright alway? 

Do not this my prayer refuse. 

Beauteous Tourmaline! 
Whence were all thy varied hues 

Gaily gathered in ? 

Was it in some fairy glen 
When the world was young? 

Didst thou catch a sunbeam then 
With thy colors strung? 

Dear, delightful Tourmaline! 

Charming to the eye, 
In thy form, soft blended in, 

Dainty tintings lie. 

Though that form of beauty 

Has no soul within, 
I must ever love thee, 

Precious Tourmaline. 



THE AGATE 

Out of the roughness of the rocks 

A marvel of dehght, 
A wondrous story telHng 

To all who read aright. 

In all its varied tracings 

It tells of long ago, 
Of elemental strivings 

A new-bom world must know. 

In earth's deep and darksome caverns, 
When secret forces blended, 

Atom unto atom joining 
On nature's will attended. 

Thence there came this form of beauty 

So wondrous in design, 
So delicate and charming 

In every graceful line. 

We love the beautiful in life, 

Nor love it there alone. 
The agate, too, can thrill the soul 

Although a lifeless stone. 

No chance creation can it be. 

So mystic and so fair. 
In hfe's greater mystery 

A part it has to bear. 

It is a source of interest 
To each observing mind, 



And in its lines of beauty 
We constant pleasure find. 



THE FOSSIL HUNTER 

All inspiring is the stor}^ 

The fossil hunter has in mind 

As he delves in ancient strata 
The secrets of the earth to find. 

In the Great Creator's footsteps 
Through the course of ages going, 

In the rocks he reads a record 

True and constant purpose showing. 

What the fossil hunter seeth 

Others cannot always see, 
Life and scenes unlike the present 

That last awhile then cease to be. 

Rolling waves and crumbling mountains, 
And God's eternal forging fires 

Still building up new continents 
Where life to better life aspires. 

And still the work goes on, and on, 
And God with purpose plans it all 

Till, at last, a full perfection 
He creation's work shall call. 



131 



MEMORIES OF THE PAST 

We all can find something pleasant 
In looking back upon the past; 

Some joyous and delightful hours 
Whose interest will forever last. 

And trifling things oft bring to mind 
The pleasures and the hopes of old, 

Some gentle word or kindly look, 
Again the scroll of life unfold. 

And though, perchance, they soon were lost- 
Those happy hours of trust and truth, 

We love to dream them o'er again — 
Those dear enjoyments of youth. 

And mid the din, the toil and strife — 
The world's continual work and wear, 

These memories will ever charm 
To sweet forgetfulness of care. 

Yes, pleasant memories are those 
Which bring again, in swift review, 

The dear enjoyments of our youth, 
So fond, so tender, and so true. 



WHICH ONE OF THESE ARE YOU? 

There is a certain difference in mankind 

That one can readily define; 
But not between the rich and poor we find 

The ever-separating fine. 
Some rich men are ever generous seen, 

Are whole-souled men in all their ways; 
Are never guilty of an action mean, 

Or think that adulation pays. 
Such men take great comfort in their wealth; 

True friends they make where'er they go. 
And if they ride for pleasure or for health 

No one will ever envy show. 
Other rich men think that they are made 

Of better flesh than poorer men; 
With lordly airs their scornful role is played 

And few seem worthy of their ken. 
They walk the streets with cold and haughty stare. 

And when they ride they do so for display; 
And every action does the impress bear 

Of a selfish and conceited way. 
Again, poor men as noblemen may be. 

And poverty with courage bear. 
Each day some blessing in their portion see 

That makes all life a cheerful aspect wear. 
Such love their homes and love their fellowmen; 

A healthful goodness is their constant aim. 
And the love they give comes back to them again 

In honest reverence and acclaim. 
Other poor men think that all is wrong — 

Are cross and crabbed in their ways; 
They only sing a melancholy song, 

Nor ever strike a note of praise. 

^33 



Such never have quite half a chance to live, 
For other men the best have got. 

Instead of prizing what their lives can give 
They evermore bewail their lot. 

Rich or poor, such is the difference true. 

And which of these in daily hfe are you ? 

TROUBLE ON THE PLANET MARS 

There was trouble on the planet Mars, 
Great disturbance and commotion, 

Some fearful influence spreading 
Over continent and ocean. 

All the Martians were excited 
And wildly hurrying to and fro, 

Looking anxious and despairing 
O'er some overwhelming woe. 

Odor awful and mephitic 

Was penetrating everywhere, 
Worse than any combination 
u, The skill of chemists can prepare. 

What could be this stifling odor — 
So unaccountable and strange, 

Coming thus upon the planet 
With such an universal range? 

Learned Martians, men of science — 
Seeking the source of all this woe, 

Through all space exploring 
Came at last, the truth to know. 

134 



From the earth came all this trouble, 
From a beauteous world disgraced; 

To the habits of its people 

They this curse mephitic traced. 

Nauseous fumes from pipe and bowl — 

In varied forms of usage known, 
Through long centuries uprising, 

To space-pervading power had grown. 

Stench of liquor and narcotics. 
Worse than all bi-sulphides known, 

And foully tainting everything 
On the planet Mars was thrown. 

Odor awful and mephitic — 

Spreading horror and despair. 
Naught could save the strangling Martians 

Or neutralize that deadly air. 

SATAN'S SYNDICATE 

What awful fiendish work is done 

Through Satan's active Syndicate, 
In every land, in every zone. 

Its power through all the earth is great. 
Alcohol, tobacco, and the love of gold, 

Have horrid and debasing power, 
And fearful miseries, untold. 

Are multiplying every hour. 
The agents of the Syndicate 

Are found wherever one may go, 
On every side they watch and wait, 

Nor ever shame or mercy know. ^ 

135 



With hardened hearts they never heed 

The widows' or the orphans' cry, 
Nor aught of suffering or of need 

Awakes in them a pitying sigh. 
If they can gain a store of gold 

They care not what may be the cost, 
Nor seem themselves guilty to hold, 

Though hearts may break, and souls are lost, 
And through the world men drain the glass 

Which wrecks the body and the mind. 
To deepest degradation pass, — 

To all life's sad examples blind. 
And ruined homes and aching hearts. 

Disease, crime, poverty and shame, 
And all the pain remorse imparts 

Is all a drunkard's life can claim. 
Is there no hope? No chance to break 

Temptation's bonds of power so great? 
Does God his creatures now forsake 

To Satan's evil Syndicate? 
O no ! nor is it now too late 

For honest work, and earnest prayer. 
And all the truly good and great 

Should yet most bravely do and dare. 
More bravely stand to help the right. 

To save the erring and the weak, 
And rise in all their power and might 

The greatest good for all to seek. 
If all would thus their interest show, 

The "gates of hell — " which open stand 
Wherever human footsteps go. 

Would soon be closed in every land, 



136 



And life would be more true and fair, 
And peace and love would banish hate, 

And all be free from this great snare 
Of crafty Satan's Syndicate. 

THE POOR MAN'S CLUB 

O make it more cheerful and bright — 
The place where the beer drinkers go, 

And fill it with every delight. 

For the times demand it you know, 

'Tis ^Hhe poor man's club^' to-day, 

A more respectable name, 
And seems much nicer to say, 

And less suggestive of shame. 

The Bishop has given it blessing, 
The Rector believes it the way; 

The saloon is surely progressing 
With everything else to-day. 

All it wants now is a "trust" 

To make its object secure. 
To make it strong in the lust 

That would more victims allure. 

The beer seller smiles o'er his bar — 
So bright his prospects appear, 

There is nothing his comfort to mar, 
The way before him seems clear. 

With the church and the state on his side 
He certainly has nothing to fear, 

The "poor man's club" will be his pride 
The poor man's ruin his cheer. 

137 



THE RUMSELLER 

He stands behind his bar, 

Waiting day by day 
For the weak and careless 

To become his prey. 
Ever cool and watchful — 

In his sordid aim, 
Ruining souls and bodies 

Without fear or shame. 
Right hand man of Satan, 

In his lust for gain, 
Staying not for sorrow, 

Caring not for pain. 
Blighted homes are nothing, 

Nor the hearts that bleed, 
Naught of pity has he 

In his sinful greed. 
Every sense of honor 

From his life has fled, 
Every word of pleading 

Finds his conscience dead. 
Starving wives and children 

Pray to him in vain. 
From his soul so reckless 

They no mercy gain. 
His the horrid traffic. 

Theirs the shame untold, 
Though they weep and suffer 

He must have his gold. 



138 



THE TEMPERANCE LEVER 

Take right hold upon "The Lever," 

All honest men and true, 
And with all your strength endeavor 

A royal work to do. 
We have a sure and solid purchase 

Across the base of right, 
And every man should take his place 

And pull with all his might. 

And none should e'er faint-hearted be, 

Or think the effort vain, 
But pull away right lustily 

More leverage to gain. 
Then saloons must surely go — 

Those awful dens of sin, 
United force their power o'erthrow, 

And perfect victory win. 

Then take hold the Temperance Lever! 

All honest men and true, 
For the duty of endeavor 

Most surely rests with you. 
You should not wait, or hesitate, 

Temptation to remove. 
For in that lies a peril great 

For many that we love. 

For the men who deal out rum and beer, 
Are prompt a chance to seek 

To tempt all those who may appear 
In strength of purpose weak. 



139 



And every one they would persuade 

The fearful stuff to take, 
And care not for the ruin made 

If they their profit make. 

But they could not do such wrong 

If temperance men were true, 
And always stood out firm and strong, 

And did the best they knew. 
Then take hold the Temperance Lever! 

All honest men and true, 
For the duty of endeavor 

Most surely rests with you. 

THE UNDER DOG 

Sometimes the suffering under dog 
Deserves just what he gets, 

When a peaceful minded dog 
In snarling mood he frets. 

Dog forbearance has its limits — 

As in the human brain. 
And low, canine comprehension 

Does not this fact retain. 

So, when a mean aggressive cur 

A nobler beast attacks, 
All sense of right and honor 

That dog entirely lacks. 

And who can blame the better dog 
If he at last should turn, 

140 



And try to make the other dog 
Some decent manners learn? 

Then do not punch the upper dog 
When he asserts his rights, 

And do not pity the under dog 
Who started all the fight. 

THE MAN IN THE BOX 

The studious scientists of to-day 
In methods new, and rather queer, 

Their skill most marvellous display 
Until results as marvellous appear. 

They shut a genus homo in a box 
Built up with multitudinous traps. 

To guard from atmospheric shocks, 
And other troublesome mishaps. 

With pumps and guages, quite galore, 
They kept him well supplied with air, 

A rightful quantity, no more 

Than what his heart and lungs could bear. 

They fed him on everything but oats and hay, 
And carefully observed results, 

Tabulating every day 
The tally of his heart and pulse. 

They guaged the action of his brain. 
The sHghtest twitching of a nerve, 

His hours of restlessness and pain, 
His strength potential in reserve 

141 



At last they gave him all this treatment 
With alcohol for food and drink, 

And telephonic message sent 
To tell him how to work and think. 

And day by day the fiery test 

On nerve and muscle they applied, 

In doses such as they thought best 
The liquid stimulant they tried. 

The plucky fellow Hved it through, 
And did all right his given stent, 

And from the tabulations true 
Reports world-wide were sent. 

He lived it through, is living yet, 
So alcohol as food they claim, 

Though suffering souls cannot forget 
It brought them poverty and shame. 



140 



PART THIRD 
Songs of Love 



MY ANGEL MOTHER 

I saw my mother dear last night; 

In a sweet dream she came to me, 
All clad in raiment pure and white 

Such as an angel's guise must be. 

And she was radiant and fair, 

All glowing with a heavenly grace, 

Without one trace of worldly care 
Upon her happy, angel face. 

And the old look of love was there — 
The unforgotten mother's gaze, 

The pleasant smile she used to wear. 
With all her tender thoughtful ways. 

She pressed upon my lips a kiss — 
That angel mother of my dreams. 

And in that gentle touch of bliss 

Most precious did her presence seem. 

Without one earthly thought or fear 
To mar the hallowedness of love 

I breathed a sainted atmosphere 
Expressive of the world above. 

Too soon that vision passed away — 
All softly fading from my sight, 

Yet still retains its blissful sway, — 
In oft remembered, dear delight. 



145 



THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE 

The warmest feelings of an earnest heart 
Are oft the hardest to confess, 

And words oft lack the ready art 
Their depth and value to express. 

But when upon life's devious way, 
Two kindred souls may chance to meet. 

Love finds fit language to convey — 
From each to each its message sweet. 

From heart to heart a mystic thrill 
New consciousness of life awakes. 

And dear delights the moments fill, 
As soul with soul communion takes. 

Love speaks through timid-glancing eyes; 

It flashes o'er the blushing face, 
Upon whose purity there lies 

A new-born tenderness and grace. 

In man 'tis shown in kindly care, 
In quick response to every need, 

In looks of love which ever bear 
A gentleness of thought and deed. 

Love's language o'er all the world is known, 
In lands of every clime and name, 

Near cottage hearth, or near a throne 
Its sweet expression is the same. 



146 



SHE REIGNS A QUEEN 

She reigns a queen with dignity and grace 
And yet true mother in her household sphere, 

With loving look upon her earnest face, 

And voice whose tones are ever sweet to hear. 

Her dominion is in her quiet home — 
A peerless queen of love and beauty she, 

And from her rule none ever wish to roam, 
Or seek from their allegiance to be free. 

She reigns a queen with tender, kindly sway, 
In all the pride of her fond woman's soul, 

And loving ones most cheerfully obey 

Her gentle mandates and her just control. 

Her steadfast throne is in their trusting hearts, 
Her joy is in the beauty of their lives, 

To which her own dear self some grace imparts, 
As for their constant happiness she strives. 

A queenly mother and a queenly wife! 

In all her daily duties pure and true, 
She fills with goodness every hour of life, 

And wins sweet love, and reverence, too. 



147 



THE TRUE WIFE 

The times were hard, and honest John was poor, 
'Twas all the worthy man could do 

To keep the hungry wolf without the door, 
And clothe his many children, too. 

And though his trust in God was always strong, 
His weary heart was sometimes sad; 

The path he trod seemed very rough and long, 
And few the comforts that he had. 

One night he sat in thinking, dreary mood. 

After his evening meal was o'er, 
While by his side his wife as thoughtful stood, 

Watching the care-worn look he wore. 

At last said she, — true wifely words to hear. 
And spoken in her own sweet way. 

Striving his all-enburdened soul to cheer. 
And all his anxious fears allay, 

''We have so many ways for money, John, 

And you are earning little, too, 
I've been thinking to-day, while you were gone, 

Of something more that I might do." 

He waited for no more. With look of pride, 
His arm was quickly around her thrown; 

Such wife, such love, was worth all else besides. 
No greater fortune could be known. 

"My darhng, noble wife! thy trusting heart 
Is always full of loving care, 
148 



And always striving with thy woman's art 
To ease the burdens that we bear. 

^^ God's blessings on thee, wife, so good, so true. 
So faithful in thy cheering power, 

In all our troubles never shrinking through 
The darkest or the saddest hour, 

"And with thee and the little ones in health, 

I will not sorrow or complain. 
For ye are better far than countless wealth, 

Or everything that wealth can gain." 

. THE TRIBUTE OF LOVE 

There is one whose word is worth far more 

Than all the critics say; 
One whose loving praise I ever crave, 

And seek to win alway. 

With tender heart and careful eye, 
She reads the lines I write, 

And studies well the slightest thing 
I happen to indite. 

And I have sometimes seen her smile 
At jovial thoughts of mine, 

And follow on with eager glance 
The measure of each line. 

And once — and better far than praise, 

Or all the wealth of fame, 
I saw her drop a pearly tear, 

My humble muse could claim. 

149 



IMPATIENT LOVE 

The time drags slowly, Love, away from thee, 
And never coming, ever distant seems 

The hour which brings most welcome back to me, 
The angel of my life, my hopes, my dreams. 

'Tis vain to strive to make the moments speed; 

In vain to seek diversions here. 
Thy longed-for presence is my greatest need; 

All else around seems cold, and dark, and drear. 

I miss thy form, thy gentle, loving smile, 
And all love's sweet caressing ways, 

The only charms which perfectly beguile 
And fullest comfort to this life conveys. 

I fain would look into thy eyes to-night, 
The fondness of thy tender heart to see. 

Time then would speed on wings of rosy light. 
And hfe, indeed, be full of melody. 



ISP 



TOUJOURS 

As the weary hours of day 
In life's duties pass away, 
Far from all, my mind will stray, 
And, loved one, think of thee. 

When the "stilly hour of eve" 
Comes the weary to relieve. 
Then all care I'll gladly leave 
And give that hour to thee. 

When I kneel in humble prayer. 
Heavenward on the evening air 
Angelic forms shall bear 
A sacred thought for thee. 

When I take my nightly rest, 
And in lightsome slumber blest 
Greet the forms I love the best, 
I will dream of thee. 



i$i 



WEDDING BELLS 

Like far off music, sweetly toned, 
There comes the sound of wedding belle 

Whose cadence to the listening ear 
A happy, happy story tells. 

joyous bells! voiceful of love, 
And tremulous with pure delight, 

To earnest and to kindred hearts, 
A blissful chime ye ring to-night. 

O joyous bells! love's wedding bells! 

No sweeter music e'er can be. 
Ring out once more exultantly, 

Your chiming notes of melody. 

Chime on, O bells! this favored hour 
Is full of all that's bright and fair, 

A.nd in its joys true love shall find 
A glad forgetfulness of care. 

God bless those well-beloved ones. 
And day by day their bliss renew. 

Guard them along hfe's devious way. 
And ever keep them fond and true. 

Yes, forever and forever, 

For them chime on sweet wedding bells 
Whose far off music sweetly toned, 

A happy, happy story tells. 



152 



THE SILVER WEDDING 

(Mr. and Mrs. E. Woodruff.) 

Sweet wedding bells we hear to-night, 

In silvery chimes they ring, 
And memories of dear delight 

To loving hearts they bring. 

Out of the past they call once more — 
With soft constraining pow'r, 

The fondest thoughts love lingers o'er, 
In life's entrancing hour. 

With thankful hearts these chimes we hear- 

These silv'ry wedding bells, 
Whose happy music — sweet and clear, 

A pleasant story tells. 

They tell of all that time has brought, 

Of comfort and of cheer; 
Of "wreaths of blessing" love has wrought 

To crown each passing year. 

They chime of what the future brings 

To earnest, true desire; 
Of hopes that rise on soaring wings, 

And upward still aspire. 

Chime on, then, O ye silver bells! 

And gladly speed this hour; 
For clear and sweet your music tells 

Of love's entrancing power. 



153 



LOVE KEEPS US YOUNG 

Love keeps the heart from growing old, 
And gives to life a firmer hold 
When all its joys in age renew, 
And soul to soul keeps fond and true. 

Nature may oft her power display 
To wear the form of strength away; 
But love, with sweet reviving art, 
Sustains the mind and cheers the heart. 

The tender and affectionate ways — 
So cheering in more youthful days, 
As years go on still bring delight 
And make all life seem warm and bright. 

The love that bears the strain of years 
More pure and beautiful appears. 
And as the end of life draws near 
Such love has less of doubt and fear. 



154 



THE SUNSHINE OF LOVE 

To love and be beloved is vi^orth 
This toilsome journey on the earth; 
To know that love is all thine ovi^n, 
Reserved in faith for thee alone, 
That hand in hand, and hearts as one. 
Unchanging and true love's course shall run. 
Is bliss enough for man to know, 
Enough to lighten every woe. 

To know no other form will share 
The fond caress and tender care, 
The loving words and gentle smile 
That life's most weary hours beguile, 
That these are kept alone for thee 
And oft bestowed most lavishly, 
Is bliss enough for man to know, 
Enough to lighten every woe. 

To read thy loved one's earnest mind 
And find it thrilled with thoughts refined, 
At times expressed in accents low, 
With sparkling eyes and cheeks aglow, 
Which tell that thus, to thee alone, 
Her sweetest confidence is shown, 
Is bliss enough for man to know, 
Enough to lighten every woe. 



155 



LOVE BY POST 

O welcome, dear letter, 
Which comes to impart 

The sweetest of comfort 
To my longing heart. 

O welcome, most welcome. 
For love lies within; 

The purest and holiest 
Man ever may win. 

No words of affection 
More tender could be 

Than these that my loved one 
Thus sendeth to me. 

Then welcome, dear letter, 
Which tells me of this — 

That my love still loves me, 
And sends me a kiss. 



156 



THREE LITTLE MAIDENS 

I must confess I am in love, 

And very deeply, too. 
For more than one my heart can claim, 

As I am glad to have them do. 

Three sweet, young maidens have my love, 

And I have told them so. 
And they are all delighted 

This positive fact to know. 

I must tell the truth about them, 

And why they captured me, 
And filled my life with rosy dreams, 

And sweetest melody. 

Two are pretty Gypsy girls. 
With black and sparkling eyes, 

Within whose clear and liquid depths 
A look of goodness lies. 

The other is a blue-eyed lass, 

More quiet in her ways; 
In everything as lovable, 

As worthy, too, of praise. 

Three darling little maidens 

As one could wish to know, 
And the truth is — / am Grandpa ! 

And that is v.'hy I love them so. 



IS7 



THE BIRTHDAY 

Annie is nine years old to-day; 

The thought is hke a lightsome dream, 
So fast the time has passed away 

It most impossible does seem. 
Yet here she is, so tall, so fair, 

Almost a little lady grown we find, 
With looks and ways that seem to wear 

A conscious dignity of mind. 
The pretty miss begins to feel 

That she has duties to fulfil; 
That something of life's woe and weal 

Depends upon her mind and will. 
It seems but yesterday since she came — 

With all her dainty baby ways, 
Our love and tenderest care to claim 

And fill with sunshine all our days. 
And now she is a bonnie lass, 

And we are counting up her years — 
Which ever seem to quickly pass, 

As dearer still her life appears. 
It is a dream within a dream — 

This other life within our lives. 
Whose joys so ever precious seem 

Whose trust such perfect pleasure gives. 



158 



GOD BLESS THE LITTLE ONES 

God bless the little ones! they are as pearls 

Which strew the rugged path of life; 
Sparkling with untutored loveliness, 

And with exuberant freshness rife. 

God bless the little ones, and homeward, heavenward, 
Guard them from every blighting storm, 

'Tis but the roughness of the world's fretful rush 
Which shapes and warps them out of form. 

Then care for the little ones tenderly. 

Ay! treasure them close to the heart; 
The richness of love they will richly repay, 

And purest of pleasure impart. 

Ever deal with them gently and truly, 
Let their minds with wisdom be stored, 

To fit them for a kingdom and a throne. 
As precious jewels of the Lord. 



159 



OUR BONNIE LASSIE 

Her life is like a beauteous flower 
So pure, so sweet to see, 

Unfolding goodness every hour, 
Our dear, our bonnie lassie. 

Her smile is as the sunlight 
So cheering and so free. 

She keeps us all so heart-bright, 
The dear, the bonnie lassie. 

Her ways are full of blessing;— 

A winsome girl is she, 
A depth of love possessing, 

Our sweet, our bonnie lassie. 

A daily pride and treasure: — 

A holy trust to be. 
She makes of life a pleasure, 

Our dear, our bonnie lassie. 

That life how drear without her,— 
Her lightsomeness and glee, 

She comforts all about her, 
Our dear, our bonnie lassie. 



1 60 



ON THE CAMPUS 

They are walking on the campus 

With heads bowed down and footsteps slow, 
And apparently unconscious 

How swift their precious moments go. 

They nothing care for Greek or Latin, 

Or any scientific lore, 
The lesson they are sweetly learning 

Is surely worth to them far more. 

And so they walk, with heads bowed down. 
Absorbed in life's entrancing dream. 

The happy hours of new-born love. 
Which so supremely blissful seem. 

Too soon for them the college bell 
Will bring them back to care again. 

Reminding of the lecture hour 
And all the trials coming then. 

And far too soon life's ringing tones 

Will echo on their onward way, 
And lead them on to toil and care 

By calls they cannot but obey. 

Then let them have their happy stroll, 
Their present rosy-colored dream. 

The sweetest they will ever know. 
And which will ever heaven-like seem. 



J6i 



LOVER'S LANE 

Roses red and violets blue 
In fragrance blossom there, 

Where lovers fond their vows renew, 
And life seems bright and fair. 

Dreams of bliss beyond compare 
Prevail in Lover's Lane, 

And every whispering zephyr there 
Breathes lover-like refrain. 

The wild-wood life along the way — 
In tree top and hedge row. 

Holds chattering gossip day by day 
As sweethearts come and go. 

Beyond the hedge bold bobolink 
Sings o'er the stalks of rye, 

And gives his lady love a wink 
Mischievously and sly. 

'Bobolink! wink, wink, bobolink, 

Mrs. B. don't you see, 
They are just like us, I think, 
As happy as can be." 

And so it was long, long ago. 

E'en as it is to-day. 
And time to come it will be so 

And love will have its way. 



162 



Then make its route all straight and plain 

And modern skill display, 
And let love have to Lover's Lane 

An automobile v^ay. 



ACROSS THE BRIDGES 

At the parting of the vv^aters 
On Menunkatuck's stream, 

Cupid takes a slight advantage 
Of all that lovers dream. 

When happy couples v^alk tliat way 
On tempting moonlight nights. 

Then Cupid evermore suggests 

That lovers, there, have special rights. 

For they should never cross a bridge 

Without a loving kiss. 
And here two well-knov^^n bridges make 

A duplicated bliss. 

O happy lovers v^ho can claim 

Such blissful right of way! 
And every such suggestion 

All unrebuked obey. 



t63 



EVELYN 

A wee, bonnie girl 
In life's happy bower; 

A rosebud of beauty 
Unfolding each hour. 

A wee, bonnie girl 
That rests in our arms; 

A blessing from heaven 
In her sweetness and charms. 

A wee, bonnie girl 

A sunbeam of light, 
Our darling, our treasure, 

Our purest delight. 



^^ 



CHILD LORE 

What is this little mystery 

That sits upon my knee, 
And chatters so unceasingly 

Her baby talk to me? 

How does the darling know so much? 

It seems so very strange 
That thus her budding mind can have 

Such wide and thoughtful range. 

She nothing knows of this world's sin; 

Of all its pain and care, 
The world she knows is different far, 

With skies most bright and fair. 

Sweet are the stories that she tells, 

So innocent and pure, 
And that they are true she feels 

Most absolutely sure. 

Are they but misty memories — 

Still lingering in her brain, 
Of some earlier phase of life 

She sweetly struggles to retain? 

The dear one brings us nearer heaven, 

So full of love is she, 
This little, prattling darling 

Who sits upon my knee. 



i6= 



THE CHILD'S STORY 

Her tiny arms are round my neck; 

Fast and close she holds me; 
"I love you so much, papa dear, 

And your good girl I'll be." 

I kiss the little darling; 

I gaze into her eyes 
Where all the holiness of love 

In sweet expression lies. 

"Do you know where I came from, papa? 

And why I came to you? 
I haven't lived here always, you know, 

God knew what I should do." 

"I have such pretty dreams, papa, 

When in my little bed. 
And I see bright angels round me. 

And sometimes hear what's said." 

"That was where I lived I think 

Before I came to you, 
And they must be the angels there, 

The angels bright I knew." 

"But I am glad to be your girl 

And to grow up right here. 
And be yours and mamma's lady, 

And love you both so dear." 



AT REST 

She sleeps at last, the dear one sleeps, 

A longed-for, happy rest; 
Such as a weary child might take 

Upon a mother's breast. 

She sleeps, she sleeps! The work of life 
Was too much for her to bear; 

Too great the anguish of its pain, 
Its sorrows and its care. 

She prayed for rest; it gently came, 

"A calm and sweet repose," 
Whose quiet, dreamless slumbering 

No sad awakening knows. 

Mysterious sleep! we cannot tell — 

When it shall pass away. 
What visions on her sight will rise 

As dawns her Heavenly day. 

Perchance the first glad sound she hears 

May be the voice of love; 
The welcome of the dear ones there 

Her wondering spirit move. 

O, the glory of that new-born life! 

What music in its song! 
And how the dear one's soul will joy 

Its measures to prolong. 



167 



LET THY THOUGHTS BE GENTLE 

Let thy thoughts be gentle, 

Loving, kind and true ; 
When to anger tempted 

Let thy words be few. 

Then thy life will never 

Hasty actions know, 
Such as bring but sorrow, 

And all peace o'erthrow. 

Gentle thoughts are God-like, 

Coming from above, 
Giving one forever 

Restfulness and love. 

Yielding unto passion 

Brings to pain and grief, 
Angry thoughts if cherished, 

Never bring relief. 

Gentle be in all things, 

Ever kind and true. 
Life will then be happier, 

And thy sorrows few. 



APR 19 1904 



niun 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 873 605 6 # 



